


Memento Mori: 200 Years of Regret

by Noëlle McHenry (Quasi_Detective)



Series: Project Eclipse [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidental Death, Angst, Apologies, Arguing, Attempted Sexual Assault, Betrayal, Boys Kissing, Broken Promises, Canon Backstory, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Forbidden Love, Forced Marriage, Foreshadowing, French Kissing, Genocide, Guilt, Honeymoon, Human Experimentation, Implied Sexual Content, Implied Slash, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love Confessions, M/M, Madness, Making Out, Male Homosexuality, Male Slash, Marriage Proposal, Moving In Together, Murder, Mutual Pining, Nudity, Oaths & Vows, Orphans, Parent Death, Promises, Rage, Regret, Rejection, Resolved Sexual Tension, Science Experiments, Sexual Tension, Threats, Time Skips, Victorian, Weddings, biography
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 42
Words: 147,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6517219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quasi_Detective/pseuds/No%C3%ABlle%20McHenry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Victorian scientist performs an experiment that grants him immortality. When he discovers two-hundred years later that his immortality is only temporary, he begins documenting his entire life. His only hope is that the memoir will give someone he loves an understanding of his actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2 (July 3rd, 2017): Changed opening. Touched up some details. Run through Hemingway and mildly tweaked.  
> Edit (April 1st, 2017): Touched up a bit/details added/grammatical fixes.

            I am a monster. Everyone I love winds up hurt because of me. I have so many regrets. Too many for one man to bear alone. Yet, alone is how I find myself now. Alone is how I should be – how I always should have been. It would have better for everyone that way. I do not wish to bring harm to anyone else. I already have too many apologies that I cannot give anymore. Over two-hundred-twenty years of life, and the only thing I have to my name is guilt. If only I had died when I was in my twenties. Things would have been so much simpler. I wouldn’t have been able to hurt you.

            You must think that I hate you. I don’t. I never did. However, I know that you hate me. I deserve your hatred. By the time you read this, I will be dead. This memoir stands to serve as my final apology to you for the things that I have done… or rather, the things that I _failed_ to do.

            You are probably confused. I apologize for that. To tell the truth, I myself am confused. In my head, everything is so… barmy. Even now, as I write this, I can feel the sands of time slipping through my fingers. I do not think that I have much time to tell you my story, but you need to hear it. My hope is that it will help you to at least understand my actions, if you are unable to forgive me. I would not be surprised if you did your best to remove me from your mind altogether. So, I suppose that I had best start from the very beginning. Allow me to start over.

            My name is Cheshire. Dr. M. Cheshire. If you are asking what my first name is, you are asking the wrong question. I was born on the 9th of January in the year 1820 to George and Lorelle Cheshire in the English village of Catshill. I was an only child – my parents’ pride and joy, I suppose.

            My mother was dreadfully ill from the time I was born. It is a miracle that she lasted as long as she did. She passed when I was nine years old. I still remember walking into the lounge and finding her sitting on her rocking chair. She had been knitting. I can only presume that she had passed without pain. Her face looked angelic and soft, like that of a porcelain doll. She was so still. Being a young boy, I panicked upon finding her corpse. I ran to my father and told him to help her, but he knew it was too late. His knees gave way beneath him, and, kneeling beside her, he began to weep. I am man enough now to admit that I had not a clue what to do. It was not long before my father stood. I stayed by my mother’s side.

            When I looked for my father later, I found him in his study. There was a chandelier in there. I had always liked that chandelier. It had never occurred to me that it could support the full weight of a man’s body hanging from it.

            The bastard left me behind, having been overwhelmed by his emotions. On an impulse, he took his life. All because he lost his wife. I did not understand his logic. He had me. I was suffering, too. What was I supposed to do, all too quickly by my lonesome? I was devastated and lost, so I hurried out and found help.

            I ended up in an orphanage for a short time after that. It was to help me get my bearings, as at the age of nine, I was nearly considered a man. The orphanage was a Christian ordeal, run by nuns. The nuns did not like me. In fact, I highly doubt that they liked _anyone_. They were an awfully bitter bunch. I did not enjoy my stay, but it was at that orphanage that I met a boy named Oliver Roarke. Mr. Roarke was a rather strange child, and that never changed even as he aged. He adored stray cats, as I did, which is why we had met: both of us were trying to get the attention of an abandoned tabby cat. The cat ended up coming to me, which lead Mr. Roarke my way as well. He became a good friend, despite his issues, which were plentiful.

            Despite his powerful distrust and hatred for others, for one reason or another Mr. Roarke liked me. Dare I say he may have even loved me; there were a few times when he seemed to move in for a kiss on my lips. Sadly, as that was taboo, I was unable to return the sentiment. I was too afraid of what would happen if someone were to discover that we were in some sort of sinful relationship. Regardless, we would talk for hours on end. He may have been mentally unsound, but he sure could hold intelligent conversation. I admired that.

            I was 18 years of age, sitting at an outdoor restaurant table with Mr. Roarke, when I met a girl who caught my eye. She had skin of porcelain and hair of spun gold, but her blue eyes were those of the Devil’s. I am not sure if I did not notice the evil in her soul, or if I chose to ignore it, but my heart skipped a beat when her eyes met mine. I dared not approach her and break social conduct, but I did raise my hat at her. She smiled, and shortly after approached the table that I shared with the now-livid Mr. Roarke.

            “Hello,” she began in a dainty manner, “may I sit here?”

            I stood up and took her hand to help her sit. “Of course, Miss,” I responded.

            She thanked me and sat across from Mr. Roarke. Mr. Roarke was now glaring at me instead of her, so I averted my eyes from him and sat down beside the lady.

            “May I ask your name, Miss?” I questioned with delicacy.

            “Camille,” she said in a dainty way.

            “Your surname?” I asked.

            “Ibbott,” she responded.

            “I haven’t heard that surname around these parts,” observed Mr. Roarke with a bitter tone. Have I mentioned that he did not like people?

            “My family moved here from Leeds a week ago,” Ms. Ibbott retorted with matching ferocity. “Now, may I ask _your_ names, gentlemen?”

            “I am known as Cheshire,” I answered.

            “What is your given name, Mr. Cheshire?”

            I froze up and stammered under Mr. Roarke’s hard stare. First names were very intimate. They were often only used between family and lovers, of which Ms. Ibbott was neither to me. Though most people chose to introduce themselves with their full name, I was very private about my given name. Apart from the nuns and anyone else who happened to have my full name on file, Mr. Roarke was the only one who knew it. It did not help my nervousness that Mr. Roarke was giving me a look as though he would end my existence if I revealed my given name to this strange woman.

            “Well? Has a cat got your tongue, Mr. Cheshire?”

            “It matters not,” I managed to say.

            Ms. Ibbott hummed, “I shall find out your given name soon enough.” The mystery seemed to intrigue her, as if I were providing her with a challenge.

            Camille Ibbott remained very much in touch with me for the next year, though even now I am unsure about whether I considered that _good_. In the early evening of one day that I had unwillingly spent by her side, she invited me inside her home.

            “I am to spend the night alone, it seems,” she pouted, “and I would like your company for a while longer.”

            I obliged, not being one to deny a woman’s request (at least, not at that point in my life). Her house was very nice. Not as nice as the mansion that had been passed down from my father to myself, but nice nonetheless. Everything was neat and looked rather expensive. The walls were a light shade of green, but had black trim anyway, which I felt did not fit. I did not comment on it, though, lest I be rude. She had vases on pedestals and some paintings that I had never seen before. Needless to say, the paintings caught my eye more than anything else.

            “Come. Sit with me,” requested Ms. Ibbott, thereby breaking my attention away from her home’s décor.

            We sat on chairs in her living room and talked for a while. Ms. Ibbott was focused on drama and romance, so I cannot say that I was particularly interested by her conversation. I would much rather have been talking to Mr. Roarke. I had spent an entire day with this woman, and though I did not want to admit it to myself, she had drained me. I yearned for intellectual conversation, the likes of which I could not get from a woman… or at least not from _this_ woman. After half an hour more, unable to bear her verbal torment, I announced that I had to depart.

            “Why must you leave? Can you not just stay?” Ms. Ibbott beckoned sweetly.

            “I must go. I have someplace to be. In fact, I have already stayed much too long,” I told her. I chose not to mention that my next stop was Mr. Roarke’s residence.

            “Oh, pooh! At least let me walk you to the door, if you _must_ go.”

            I allowed her to walk with me, but she then stepped ahead and blocked the door.

            “Ms. Ibbott, I really must go,” I huffed, impatient.

            “Hold on,” she spoke in a low voice, “come closer.”

            There was a look in the lady’s eyes that I was not familiar with at the time. It made me uneasy. I did not obey her command, but she wound up moving to me on her own.

            Before I knew it, Ms. Ibbott’s crimson lips were pressed against mine. My heart began to race – not so much out of excitement, but rather because I was quite startled. She kissed me passionately, over and over again. It felt very wet and sounded ungraceful. I did not like it, even though I knew that I should have; a first kiss is a kiss to cherish, but somehow, I felt cheated.

            An eternity may as well have passed by the time Ms. Ibbott pulled back. She had not noticed that I had not been kissing back, or perhaps she had not cared, for she allowed me to leave after that.

            Disoriented, I managed to stumble from Ms. Ibbott’s residence to Mr. Roarke’s. My face was as red as a beet, of that I was certain. I felt like everyone who saw me on the street knew that I had been kissed, as if it was stamped across my forehead in big, bold letters. I considered not going to Mr. Roarke’s that night. If he knew that Ms. Ibbott had stolen my first kiss, who knew how he would react? Even so, still I went to him, despite my better judgment. When I reached his front door, I hardly even knocked before he opened the door. I suppose he knew that I was the only person who would arrive at his doorstep, especially at that time of night.

            Contrary to Ms. Ibbott’s spacious, grandiose home, Mr. Roarke’s was small, cramped, and had very few personal touches. He, too, had a couple of vases (which he made a point of replacing every time he inevitably smashed them). He also possessed a few paintings, but only hung them in the main hall. The walls in his home were a sort of off-beige tone, and the wallpaper was peeling a bit in places. Mr. Roarke cared little for minor details like these, and saw no reason to maintain his home’s appearance. I was the only person who ever called on him anyway.

            “You look as though someone’s seen you in the nude,” The tall, lanky man (about five centimetres taller than me) remarked after I entered his home. He had never been one for sugar-coating the truth.

            “I feel that way,” I admit. My voice was shaky. Not good.

            “Nude?”

            I rolled my eyes at him. “You know what I meant.”

            “What happened?” Asking me this, Mr. Roarke got very close to me. To my own quiet surprise, I did not mind. Perhaps I had grown used to his closeness. He towered over me, since he was the tallest man I had ever encountered.

            “You remember Ms. Ibbott, correct?”

            “I do, yes.”

            “She… uh…”

            Oliver gazed down into my eyes. Was it love that I saw for a moment?

            “She kissed me.”

            “She what?” There was a hiss of hatred in his tone. I realized at that moment that he had been holding my left wrist, as with his words, his grip tightened around it.

            “I am unsure as of what to do,” I mumbled. “I was not expecting her to kiss me.”

            “Don’t go back to her,” Mr. Roarke demanded. “Leave her be. Women are nothing but trouble, Mr. Cheshire.”

            I shook my head gently. “Mr. Roarke, you simply want me all to yourself.”

            “Can you blame me?” Mr. Roarke ran his gloved fingers over my cheekbone, and I looked up at him. His lavender eyes – a beautiful and unique colour – gazed deep into my green. There was a strange tension in the air between us in that moment, one that I was not unfamiliar with. Worried that something I would regret may happen otherwise, I turned my head away from his.

            “I believe I am going to retire for the night,” I told him.

            “So soon?” He frowned, but did not fight me. “Will you call upon me tomorrow?”

            “Perhaps.” With that, I wished Mr. Roarke goodnight and left his home much earlier than even I had anticipated. I needed some time to think, and the odd sensation that I felt in my chest while around Mr. Roarke would be of no help to me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2 (July 4th, 2017): Grammatical fixes, general touch-ups. Ran through Hemingway and made mild adjustments.  
> Edit (April 1st, 2017): Grammatical fixes.  
> Originally posted April 13th, 2016.

            The village of Catshill, in the year of 1838, was a very Catholic community. Every Sunday, people would flock to churches to endure a long service about things written in the bible. Even so, there were some that chose not to partake in the services. Even fewer so who were, in secret, not Catholic at all. Mr. Roarke and I made up the small percentage that accepted our hometown’s Catholicism, but did not embrace it. I like to think that if it were not for Roarke’s disliking of the religion, I may have been Catholic myself. Though, who am I kidding? I probably would have been as agnostic as I always was even if he was the most religious man on the face of the Earth. However, I embraced the idea that my inability to believe in God was in part because I would never dare to go against Mr. Roarke.

            That is, I would never dare to go against Mr. Roarke on any subject other than courtesy. That is why, on a Sunday afternoon, I obliged to Ms. Ibbott’s request for company once more. It was not for a sexual purpose that I entered her home again. Perhaps it was something more like curiosity. Since she kissed me, I had in my bosom an odd feeling. Or was it since Mr. Roarke had brushed his spindly fingers against my cheek? I was no longer sure, and I needed to be certain of what exactly had caused the heavy eagerness in my heart.

            “Oh, Mr. Cheshire,” Ms. Ibbott began after I closed her door behind us, “I’m so happy that you were not scared away by my bold move.”

            I said nothing, too nervous to speak. I only hoped that she would not be any more forward than before. Notwithstanding my worries, I was very soon to learn that Camille Ibbott was a woman who preferred high entropy.

            “Please, sit down,” she beckoned. “Let us talk again.”

            I sat beside her on a luxurious dark red sofa, which was a new addition to her living room. Then I listened to her speak for a while. Occasionally, I offered sounds of false intrigue. In all honesty, though, I was not listening to a word she was saying. My mind kept wandering back to Mr. Roarke. I had been avoiding him since he told me to abandon Ms. Ibbott. I wondered if he was doing alright, or if he had possibly stopped taking his medication. Was he thinking of me? The answer was most likely yes.

            All of a sudden, Ms. Ibbott stood, thereby removing me from my thoughts and placing me back into the present.

            “I’ll be right back,” she told me, “don’t go anywhere.” There was a hint of playfulness in her voice. I nodded, and she disappeared behind me, around the corner of the doorway.

            I slipped back into my thoughts. I imagined myself close to Mr. Roarke again. The look in his eyes had been similar to the look Ms. Ibbott gave me before she kissed me, but his had possessed a tenderness that hers lacked. How had I felt in that moment, staring into his eyes? What look had I been giving him? I tried to find words to describe my feelings, but found none.

            “Mr. Cheshire?”

            I looked over my shoulder at the sound of Ms. Ibbott’s voice, only to immediately yank my eyes away. The lady was surely off her trolley; she had removed her dress, and now stood in the doorway with her hourglass figure completely exposed.

            “Ms. Ibbott,” I stumbled on my words, “please put your clothes back on.”

            “I don’t think I will.” Ms. Ibbott still wore her heels, so I could hear them clicking against the floor as she stepped toward me. Then she was standing right in front of me, looking down at me. I looked up at her, she who had her long blond braid draped over her shoulder, allowing it to cover one of her otherwise bare breasts. Her skin, cold and pale, was flawless. What little I opted to look at was remarkable. Yet, the feeling in my chest became one of unease when she reached down with gloved hands and removed my bowtie.

            “Ms. Ibbott,” I choked.

            “Shush,” she retaliated. Her hands began to unbutton my shirt, exposing my chest. I was no longer sure of what I wanted, but she seemed certain of what _she_ did. “I think I found myself a husband.” Ms. Ibbott’s voice was a whisper against my lips. Then she began to kiss me again. Her dainty finger ran down my chest as my arms found hers. I started to push her away, whether I realized it then or not. “Do not fight it,” she husked. “It is fine. Everything is fine.”

            I did not want it. I did not like it. I did not want a commitment with her, and I certainly did not want to engage in sexual intercourse with her. But she would not let up. If she was doing this for reproduction, as was the only socially-accepted reason for the act to be performed at all, then I was even more horrified! The thought of having a child with her _terrified_ me!

            When Ms. Ibbott’s hand reached my groin, she curled her fist a bit, coercing a gasp from the back of my throat. She found that I was still completely flaccid, but that did little to deter her.

            “Not in the mood, then?” She asked. “Well, that is easily remedied.” She leaned in, and with her tongue she started to fondle my earlobe. I will give her credit in as much as she seemed to know what she was doing. Yet, it was to her displeasure that she found that no form of foreplay she tried was able to arouse me. With a huff, she stood up straight and held out her arms, displaying all of herself for me. “Do you want me,” she demanded to know, “or not?”

            I did not answer.

            Clearing her throat, Ms. Ibbott lowered her arms and walked around me. From around the corner, I heard her pull her long red dress. Judging only by the sound of her shoes, I determined that she began to step into it.

            “You’d best go now,” she insisted. I remained motionless for a moment longer before I slowly started to redo the buttons on my shirt.

* * *

            I could tell no one what had happened. The only person I could possibly tell was Mr. Roarke. But if he ever found out that I had almost shagged Ms. Ibbott, I imagined that he would murder me. Still, I needed to check on him. I had been avoiding him for a while, and I worried about how poorly he might have handled his isolation. So, I dropped by his house that night. I knocked twice, but there was no response. I tried the doorknob. The door creaked open, and I stepped into the cramped abode before closing it behind me.

            “Mr. Roarke?” I called into the dark house.

            Mr. Roarke’s home was a mess. Things had been thrown about, and a few of his vases were shattered. Some of the paintings on the wall had been knocked over, and the mess led upstairs. Quickly, I realized what had happened: he had indeed stopped taking his medication, and that had resulted in an episode of distorted perception and overwhelming panic.

            “Mr. Roarke!” I dashed up the stairs, almost tripping once or twice due to the uneven rises. I heard Mr. Roarke shout in his room, so I went to him.

            Against the edge of the bed sat Mr. Roarke, who appeared to be having a bout of hysteria.

            You see, Mr. Roarke had a perception disorder that his medication helped to control. It caused him to sometimes see things in different sizes than they actually were. For example, Mr. Roarke and I may look at a pencil. While I would see it as being of normal size, he would exclaim about how humongous it was. Today, his disorder might be called Alice in Wonderland Syndrome, but I digress. Whenever he began to see things in this warped way, Mr. Roarke would often begin to panic. He would calm down on his own eventually, but it seemed I was of use in the sense that I could calm him down quicker.

            I strode across the room and wrapped my arms around Mr. Roarke, who fought me at first. He did not seem to know who was holding him in the haze of whatever was going on in that scattered brain of his.

            “Ssh, Mr. Roarke. It is me. Everything is going to be all right,” I hushed as I embraced him tightly, so as to restrain him if he attempted to hit me in the midst of his panic. He had done so before, and though he rarely hurt me, he always felt guilty afterwards.

            “M—Mr. Cheshire?” He stammered my name in a weak relief, like that of a tortured man whose single ray of hope had appeared before him.

            “Yes.” Sensing that he was beginning to relax, I started to gently stroke his blond, nearly white, hair. Perhaps he was an albino? That might have explained his odd eye colour and how his hair was naturally platinum, but I was unsure.

            “Oh, thank goodness you’re here…”

            “You stopped taking your medication, didn’t you?” I scolded.

            Mr. Roarke rolled his eyes. “You know you’re the only reason that I take that crap anymore, Mr. Cheshire…”

            I argued, “It’s not crap. It keeps you from falling this low.”

            “But when I don’t take it, I get to spend more time with you…”

            “Is it worth it to make me so worried for your health?” I complained. Mr. Roarke responded by laying his head against my chest.

            “Hold me for a little while longer, would you, Mordecai?”

            I sighed. “I told you not to call me by my given name, Mr. Roarke.”

            “Why don’t you ever call me Oliver?”

            “Because being on a first name basis implies a level of intimacy that I’m not ready to share with you yet, Mr. Roarke.”

            Mr. Roarke huffed, but did not argue it further.

            And there we sat, holding one another in silence for what felt like hours.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2 (July 4th, 2017): Added more new scenes. General touch-ups. Actually did some research on the spot for once rather than working off of assumptions and memory of documentaries I watched. Ran through Hemingway and made minor adjustments.  
> Edit (April 1st, 2017): Added a new scene, grammatical fixes.  
> Originally posted April 14th, 2016.

            It was 1843 by the time that I met Camille Ibbott again. Nothing in my life had changed but for the fact that I had finished my studies in the sciences. I had earlier in the year earned the right to call myself a doctor. My specialty was bloodwork, but I did not take up an occupation in the field because nothing seemed right for me. There wasn’t much of a calling for bloodwork in Victorian medicine in the 1840s. I did not feel like any of the available jobs would bring me satisfaction – bring me the feeling of _pride_ that I so desired _._

            I was alone, sitting at a table in a restaurant drinking a cup of tea, when suddenly Ms. Ibbott appeared beside me. I looked up at her in confused bewilderment, for I had not even been aware that she was still in Catshill.

            “Hello, Mr. Cheshire,” she greeted, lifting her skirt to give me a curtsy. “Or should I call you _Doctor_ Cheshire?”

            “Doctor,” I declared, forgetting my manners.

            “It has been a while, has it not?”

            “Indeed it has, Ms. Ibbott.” My voice strained with sardonicism and distain.

            “I didn’t forget you.”

            “I am aware.”

            “May I sit across from you?”

            “I suppose.” I crossed my legs under the table. I did not stand to help her sit. For some reason I did not find that to be appropriate. Ms. Ibbott shrugged off my impoliteness and sat across from me at the table. People were beginning to stare, but I was unsure whether it was because I was being rude or something else.

            “Oh, how I’ve missed you, Dr. Cheshire. I worried I may never see you again,” she revealed in a relieved breath.

            “Where have you been, anyway?” I vacantly questioned, taking another sip of my tea. I had not added quite enough sugar for my liking, but I was trying to wean myself off of sugar anyway, so it was fine.

            “I went back to Leeds. Family business. But now I’m here on my own.”

            “Why is that?” Though I asked, I did not actually care to hear the answer.

            She tapped her nose, a gesture that I did not entirely understand, but I nodded anyway. I could see people giggling and whispering with one another. Were we doing something wrong? Had Ms. Ibbott told them something?

            “Oops,” she gasped as something rolled across the floor and hit my feet. “Clumsy me, I’ve dropped something. Could you be a gentleman and pick it up for me?” Her request was a whisper, which I assumed was due to embarrassment.

            With a heavy sigh, I placed my saucer and tea cup on the table and bent forward. I blindly grabbed the velvety, square object under the table and extended it toward her. She covered her face with a loud gasp, and it was at that moment that I finally realized what I had picked up: a ring box. People turned to face this ordeal as I stared at the little box in my hand with a deadpan expression.

            This was bloody ridiculous. There was no way that she had just duped me like this.

            “Oh, my God! D—Dr. Cheshire!” She exclaimed, struggling to speak without laughing out of a malicious glee. “Yes! Yes, I will marry you!”

            Ladies and gentlemen stood and clapped, applauding us as Ms. Ibbott flung herself over the table to embrace me. I thought about what to do. I could not simply flat out deny Ms. Ibbott. Not only was she a force to be reckoned with, but denying her would give me a bad name. I had no idea what to do. So, stupidly, I played along.

* * *

            It was not until later that I finally decided to speak my mind. Having been pacing between the front door and lounge area, I finally stepped closer to Ms. Ibbott’s sofa. The woman was sitting upon it, stirring some homemade cups of tea. She daintily picked up one of the cups and took a sip as if nothing was going on. Then she flinched because the tea was too hot.

            “What the bloody hell was that?” I demanded, fuming in a barely-concealed rage.

            “What was what?” The woman casually inquired as she put the teacup she held into its saucer, on her palm.

            “That proposal you tricked me into! You know damn well that I had nothing to do with that!”

            Ms. Ibbott shrugged, as though my complaining was only a slight inconvenience to her. “Well, you would not have done it on your own…”

            “Exactly!” I shouted. “I do not want to marry you, you…”

            Ms. Ibbott stood as tall as she could and stared up at me with blue eyes that _dared_ me to continue my sentence. I saw the murder in her eyes – in her grim face – and decided to bite my tongue.

            “You wish not to marry me?” She hissed. “Fine. Leave, then.” I did not move until she pointed at the door and said, “Leave my house.”

            Hoping that she would leave me alone after this, I turned and began heading for her front door. However, as I was reaching for the handle, she continued with a warning.

            “Be aware, though, that I will tell everyone that you assaulted me.”

            I froze.

            “You have no idea what I can have done to you, Dr. Cheshire,” she threatened. “With a few words and crocodile tears, I could ruin your entire life.” Then she started quietly, sarcastically, crying, “Oh, constable, he raped me! He beat me up as well! Look at all of these bruises, and, oh, does this black eye lie?”

            “You would give yourself a black eye just to condemn me?” I asked.

            “I would do more than that,” the woman sibilated maliciously.

            I turned to look at her. Judging by the look on her face, she was deadly serious. If I left, she would go as far as sodomizing herself to destroy my life, wouldn’t she?

            “So,” she resumed, “what will it be, then? Shall we wed?”

            I had no choice. Trying to make my face look as resentful as possible, I grudgingly returned to her lounge room. She held up her left hand and I took it in mine, bringing it to my lips and pressing it against them. I tightened my grip on her delicate hand, crunching it in an attempt to cause her pain, but she stoically shrugged it off. She grabbed my other hand, now holding both of them in hers, and she smiled at me with cold eyes.

            “Good choice.”

            I sneered at her.

* * *

            Talk spreads fast, but Mr. Roarke had never been a social person. He remained blissfully ignorant of my wedding-to-come with Ms. Ibbott. This was good for me, because it meant that he would not explode upon seeing me. But it was also very bad for me, because it meant that I had to be the one to break the news to him. He had a right to know. I thought that it would make him stop desiring me.

            Mr. Roarke arrived at my home this time, more or less uninvited. He was taking his medication again, which was a slight comfort to my uneasy heart. I already felt like I was betraying him, and I had not even spoken yet.

            “Hello, good doctor,” he greeted, bowing deeply for me with his hat against his trunk. For once, he had worn a hat. In specific, a hall hat. I was not sure if it was new or if he had simply never worn it before. In spite of this, his bowtie was still undone. This discovery was a relief to me.

            “Please, do not do me such honours,” I countered culpably.

            “Why, no reason to be humble, Mordecai! It’s an honour to be in your presence, especially in your abode. So, I feel I _should_ do you such honours,” he playfully remarked.

            “I do not deserve your admiration, Mr. Roarke. I have bad news.”

            Mr. Roarke straightened his posture as much as he could, which still left him with a slight slouch. “Bad news? What of?”

            I began to sweat. I had no clue how to tell Mr. Roarke my problem. “Well, I… I, uh…”

            “Don’t stammer, Dr. Cheshire! Come now, you can tell me.”

            I closed my eyes and forced it out: “I’m to be married.”

            Mr. Roarke was quiet and still, as if he was still waiting for me to say something. He only blinked. There was a long pause in our conversation, with us only staring at each other. Then, Mr. Roarke finally, with a smile on his face, asked, “What?”

            “I’m to be married, Oliver. To… To Ms. Ibbott.”

            “You can’t even bring yourself to call her by her first name, though you can call me by mine, and you’re marrying her?” He pointed this fact out, which made me blush. I had not realised that I had called him by his given name. He continued, “How could you marry a woman like her? You deserve better, Mordecai.”

            I shook my head. “I don’t have a choice, Mr. Roarke.” I am unsure which of us I was trying to convince. “I need to marry someone. It may as well be her. At least I know that she is attracted to me.”

            “She tried to force herself on you, the goddamned whore!” He spat in disgust.

            “Mr. Roarke, relax. Shouting will not change anything. I am marrying her. It is set in stone.”

            “No, it isn’t.” He glared at me. But through his anger, I could see his pain, and it hurt me. Oh, did it hurt me. “You know that.”

            I lowered my head. I felt so terrible. “I’m sorry, Mr. Roarke. I’m _sorry_. What else do you want me to say?”

            He got closer to me and requested, “Say that you don’t love her.”

            “I _don’t_ love her,” I conceded. “But perhaps I can _learn_ to love her.”

            “Bloody hell, Mordecai, don’t pretend to be so optimistic!” He grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking me gently as if trying to bring me back to my senses. “If you marry her, your life is over!”

            Guiltily, I replied, “I have no choice. Forgive me.”

            Needless to say, Mr. Roarke was less than pleased. “I won’t let you do this.”

            I am unsure of how I felt when the next thing I knew, Roarke’s lips were locked with mine. I do not know what was running through my mind. All I know is that, in the mixture of stress and anxiety I had been feeling, some part of me needed release. I found myself kissing back against my better judgment. I had spent so many years denying Oliver, all for this. He pressed me back against the closest wall and made me remove the jacket of my suit. My hands guided his as they traced my torso.

            I am not a sexual person. Intimacy terrifies me. Hell, I am hardly even a _romantic_ person. But that evening, I allowed Oliver to do whatever his heart desired. I was afraid that I would lose him if I stopped him. With everything that had been going on, I could not deal with any more stress. I knew that Oliver would make my worries melt away. I would regret our sinful act later. And regret it I did.

            Oliver left my home the following morning at my request. Meanwhile, I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. I was stressing more than before, now.

            Not only was I to wed a woman that I despised, against my will, but I had committed a sexual act out of wedlock! A homosexual act! If this was ever discovered, I would surely be in ruins. The general populous would shun me. All my life’s ambitions would be lost!

            So, I decided to avoid Oliver and proceed with the wedding. I locked my doors and did not speak to him when we passed one another in the streets. I held my head high and gave him only formal greetings. Inside, it killed me to have to reject him. He soon stopped trying to get my attention. Instead, he gave me longing, wistful stares.

            I wanted him to stop looking at me. At least until after my wedding.

* * *

            The wedding ceremony bonding Camille and I was paid for by her parents, who I had the unfortunate luck of meeting. They told me how much they had heard of me, and that Camille had been planning to marry me since we first met. They too believed that I had been the one to ask for her hand in marriage. I felt somewhat twisted, as I was helping a woman I had little to no respect for pull off such a manipulative trick. I wanted to expose her, but exposing her would harm me, as well.

            The ceremony was held in a church, despite me not being Christian. Camille and her family were, and they wanted a wedding that was common practice. Though it might have been comedic to me, I decided not to comment that I did not want a wedding at all. The ceremony occurred on a Wednesday in June. Camille was rather superstitious about the date, which was a surprise to me. June and Wednesday were considered the luckiest month and weekday respectfully to wed on. I would have expected her to taunt me with the opposite: a Sunday in May. But, alas, she insisted on good luck rather than bad. Not like we had a chance together to begin with…

            Camille stood in front of me in a white gown. Truly, white was an awful colour for her. It represented innocence, of which she had none. Attached to her veil was a coronet of orange blossoms, as if she had some semblance of purity. She wore short white gloves.

            I wore a claret red frock coat with a white waistcoat. My doeskin trousers had a slight lavender tint to them. My hat, a top hat, was black. Neither she nor I had anyone with us. There were no bridesmaids, no groomsmen. It was only us, the priest, and the attendants. And the flower girls, of course (Camille’s request), but I digress.

            It was my turn to say my vows. I held the ring in my right hand.

            I took a breath and tried to speak. But, standing there, staring into Camille’s eyes, I froze. “I…”

            Camille’s brows twitched ever so slightly. Her contented face shifted to one of mild concern, or maybe growing frustration.

            I started over. “I Mordecai, take you… Camille… to be my… wife.” I was a complete mess. “To have and to… hold from this day forward… For better, for worse, for… richer, for poorer…”

            Camille cleared her throat loud enough to signal that she was growing embarrassed.

            I took a breath. “For richer, for poorer,” I repeated. “In sickness and in health, to…” I kept trying, but I could not do it. I knew it in my gut.

            The attendants of the ceremony started to murmur amongst themselves. Camille lowered her head and cleared her throat once more. Lost, I found myself looking over my left shoulder, over to my side of the pews. Since I had no family, the few people there were either friends of my late parents, or nuns from the orphanage. But then, I saw him.

            Oliver sat on the furthest pew from me. He had dressed all in black, as if he was in mourning. His expression was morose and sickly. I had neglected to invite him, for my sake more than for his, but lo and behold, he had turned up anyway. I stared at him in a mixture of surprise and grief. It was as if I had sensed his presence.

            I felt Camille’s gloved hand cup mine. In a gentle stage whisper, she said, “Darling?”

            I looked down at her. Though her face looked worried, her eyes spelled out for me the living Hell that she would unleash if I stopped now. There was no going back. I glanced one last time at Oliver. Then I slowly removed my eyes from him and gazed down at the tips of Camille’s shoes.

            I started over once more, though my voice quivered. “I Mordecai, take you Camille, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God’s holy law. In the presence of God… I make this vow.”

            I took the gold band in my hand and slipped it onto Camille’s ring finger. With that, we were man and wife.

            Camille’s parents left the church first, as was custom. Then, Camille and I walked, arms locked, down the aisle. As we walked, I stared with my gaze a tad to the left. I stared at Oliver. He stared back, grieved.

            The instant she noticed that my gaze had wandered, Camille stamped her foot onto mine. Without turning her head, she quietly hissed, “What are you doing? Do not turn your head! Doing so is in _bad_ _taste!_ ”

            “God forbid,” I grunted under my breath as I adjusted my gaze to straight ahead.

            There was a carriage awaiting us outside, drawn by four horses, all white. I dreaded the sight of it, but entered regardless. Anything to get away from the rice being enthusiastically pelted at us.

            All at once, Camille and I were alone in the moving carriage. The cheers of the attendants faded into the distance behind us. With a huff, I slumped in my seat.

            Camille removed the ring, then her glove, and then slipped the ring onto her bare finger. With pompous head tilts, she admired the golden band.

            “So,” I asked with no liveliness in my voice, “may I ask where you are taking me now?”

            “What do you mean, dearest Mordecai?” She sung. Her happiness disgusted me.

            “For our month of Hell,” I answered, then corrected, “I mean, our ‘honeymoon’.”

            My new wife giggled. “Silly creature, we must return to my home first. We haven’t even had our reception yet.” There was a thick silence in the carriage for a moment before she suddenly said, “I see you noticed Mr. Roarke.”

            Stunned, I glanced at her. “Did you invite him?”

            “Of course. I invited everyone to the wedding, remember?” Then she rolled up her eyes in thought and remarked, “Well, almost everyone, anyway. You invited very few people. Maybe four at most.”

            “Why would you invite _him?_ ” I demanded, sitting up straight now. “You do not even _know_ him.”

            “No,” she admit, then maliciously added, “but _you do_. And judging by your yearning gazes, you _do_ so well as to be considered sinful.”

            That accusation shut me up for the rest of the carriage ride.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted on July 5th, 2017.

            It was a quarter past noon when the carriage dropped Camille and I off at her home. Guests from the ceremony were expected to begin arriving within five minutes. There was a corner in the lounge room with decorations where Camille would greet the guests. I, on the other hand, lingered along the other side of the room. There was food in the kitchen, as the reception was to be as custom: a breakfast.

            Her parents arrived first and congratulated us. In specific, me; brides were rarely congratulated, as the honour was supposed to be all mine. As other guests began to pile in, Camille gestured for me to move closer to her. I did so with reluctance.

            It took half an hour to greet everyone. Breakfast was an awkward affair in and of itself. Then, Camille’s parents had the poor taste of insisting that everyone stay for a small celebration to drink some fine champagne and mingle. It was during this time that Oliver approached Camille and I.

            “Cheshire,” he spoke to me first. This would have been against custom were it not for the fact that he was hardly acquainted with Camille.

            “Mr. Roarke,” I responded, trying to mask my anxiety as I gestured to my wife. “You remember Camille, yes?”

            “Of course,” Oliver groaned, “how could I not?” He looked at my wife, and with a look of contempt, told her, “Congratulations.”

            Camille scowled for a moment, but then changed her tune. “Thank you,” she bit in a false tone of pleasure. “I believe he is a fine catch.”

            Oliver hummed in disdain and glared at me. Without another word, he wandered off to play wallflower. The guests continued to chatter around us, most holding thin champagne glasses. I wanted everyone to leave so that I could take in the gravity of my mistake alone.

            “Really, Camille,” I whispered to my wife, “ _must_ they stay?”

            “It makes us look more welcoming,” was Camille’s response.

            “Yes, but we _aren’t_.”

            “Well, no one needs to know that.” After she made this remark, she took a dainty sip of her drink.

            Clearly, I would not be able to get through to her this way. So I decided to change my tactic. I leaned in closer to her, so close that she could feel my breath on her ear. Then, I husked, “I would love to be alone with you right now. I would much prefer to skip straight to the honeymooning.”

            I expected her to giggle and agree, since sex appeared to be her ulterior motive. However, instead, her face squished in disgust. She whipped around and smacked me hard across the face. The sound of the slap attracted the eyes and ears of the guests, including Oliver.

            When Oliver saw me recoiling from the strike, I saw his fury spike. He inhaled, then shouted at Camille, “You beastly minx!” In his rage, he threw his champagne glass. I knew he had been intending to aim at her, but he must have been experiencing issues with his perception, as the glass flew toward me instead. I recognized that it was approaching me, but was still too stunned from the slap to react. Luckily, I did not need to, as a hand shot out in front of me and caught the glass by its neck. The liquid splashed out and some of it got onto my frock coat, but I did not care. Oliver was still furious, but the guests had now fixed their attention onto the stranger who caught the thrown glass. After taking a second to get my bearings, I, too, looked at him.

            The stranger, as freakishly tall as Oliver, admittedly struck me as a bit queer. He straightened his posture with a cool grace and adjusted his dark-tinted spectacles with his right hand. He looked down at me, then at my frock coat. The same hand reached over to my chest, and he dabbed at me with his black gloves. I would have pushed his hand away, but I was too busy taking in the sight of this unusual man.

            He wore a long, dark overcoat that was mulberry in colour. He, too, wore lavender trousers. However, he wore no hat. Instead of facial hair, he had unkempt stubble. His skin was paler than any I had ever seen before. In fact, if I did not know any better, I would have assumed his skin shade to belong exclusively to corpses. His hair, mid-neck length, was superficially well-maintained. It was platinum, much like Oliver’s.

            This man was definitely not someone _I_ had invited, so I looked at Camille in the hopes of finding an answer. But she too seemed confused. Just who _was_ this guy?

            The queer stranger turned to Oliver and casually scolded, “Tut, tut, Mr. Roarke; no use flogging a willing horse!”

            I was very confused.

            The guests began to grouse at Oliver, so before things got out of hand, the stranger spoke. “Not to worry, he and I will discuss this outside in a civilized manner.” His voice had a certain accent to it that I only later determined to be one from southern North America. He turned to me again, as if to ask whether I would come along. Anything to get away from the crowd, I figured, so I nodded.

            As the stranger and I began to approach, Oliver sneered and headed for the door. He waited outside, and after I closed the door behind myself, he whipped around and made his position quite clear.

            “How _dare_ she?” He shouted. “How _dare_ she raise her hand to you? My grievances, Mordecai – or rather, my _congratulations_ for picking a _perfect_ lady!”

            I frowned and argued, “Oliver, hear me out. I deserved that slap!”

            “Don’t defend her!” All at once, he snapped his gaze over to the stranger, who stood by my side patiently. “And you! Remove your nose from our business at once, you blackguard!”

            I quickly looked to my guest. “I apologize on Oliver’s behalf.” I realized my mistake. “Err, I mean, _Mr. Roarke_ ’s behalf.”

            The stranger raised one of his brows in intrigue to my slip-up. He nodded in response. “Not a matter of consequence to me,” he admit, “I’ve been called worse.”

            “Who is he,” Oliver demanded, “and why is he here? He looks like a bloody fool, done up like a mock groom!”

            “He is my guest, as are you,” I argued. “You would do well to show him some respect!”

            Done with me, Oliver shook his head. “I’m returning to my home. Good luck on your honeymoon, Dr. Cheshire.” Just like that, he turned away from me and began to walk. Were I alone, I may have chased after him. I wanted to.

            The stranger and I stood in silence for a few beats, watching Oliver leave. Then the fellow remarked, “Well, well. Looks as though everything’s nice in your garden, Cheshire.”

            I might have laughed were I not reeling inside. Instead, I looked at the stranger with narrowed eyes and asked, “If I may inquire, who are you, exactly?”

            The stranger perked up. “Oh, good gracious. I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. How dreadful.” He extended his hand to me for a handshake, which I reluctantly gave him. “The name’s Alan Mikkelsen. _Doctor_ Alan Mikkelsen.” The way he stressed his title came off as a tad strange, but so did the man himself, so I gave it little thought.

            “Did my wife invite you?”

            “Oh, no. I invited myself.”

            I raised a brow. “Right… So, are you _acquainted_ with my wife?”

            “No,” Dr. Mikkelsen conceded, “but I am with you.”

            “I… don’t follow.”

            “No worries. You wouldn’t remember me, but you will in a good few decades.” He pat my shoulder. Though he was saying he was my friend, he had still not released my hand. His grip was firm and painful. Something about him gave me a bad feeling, like he was planning my gruesome demise or something. Knowing that was silly, I shook it off and managed a friendly smile for him.

            “Well, that… a relief,” I lied.

            “Isn’t it,” Mikkelsen remarked, less a question than a bitter remark. Then, he released me and seemed chipper again. “Actually, there is a specific reason that I’ve arrived before you today.” He reached to the inside of his coat, and from a pocket there, produced a light green envelope. He offered it to me and said, “You are to read this on December 31st of 1845 and meet me at the enclosed address.”

            I held the envelope and asked, “Why would I do that? I need little of medicine.”

            He shook his head. “I am a scientist, Dr. Cheshire, not a physician. It has been brought to my attention that you specialize in bloodwork, and I am desirous of your skill.”

            “Then why wait so long?”

            Dr. Mikkelsen smirked. It frightened me somewhat. “I have some loose ends to tie up,” was all he said. Then, without another word, he too turned his back on me and began to leave.

            “I say!” I called after him. “Where on Earth are you going? You cannot be sure that we will ever meet again!”

            “Oh, don’t worry,” he assured me, “we will. Till 1846, Dr. Cheshire.” Then, he was gone.

            I had no reason to pursue him, so instead, I looked in the direction that Oliver had walked. He was long gone. As I stood there in front of Camille’s home, I found myself gazing at Dr. Mikkelsen’s envelope. Written on the front in black cursive was only my surname. I wanted to know what it contained, but I decided to wait on it. So, after hiding the envelope on my person, I simply went back inside.

* * *

            For our honeymoon, Camille dragged me to a nicer part of London for the rest of June. We stayed on property owned by her father, who all of a sudden seemed richer than I recalled. The house on the property was huge, and it put the mansion I had been calling home to shame. We had servants at our beck and call. It was quite nice, if one ignored the fact that it had to be spent by Camille’s side.

            Only a few weeks into the honeymoon, my curiosity got the better of me. I had smuggled Mikkelsen’s letter in with my personal effects, and I had to know what it said. So, once I got a rare moment alone, I opened and read it.

            The letter was, to my surprise, from the mayor of Catshill. It contained a strange and urgent request (urgent as of 1845, which was still two years away). A request that required my skills in the sciences. According to the mayor’s letter, he had secretly begun gathering the best scientists in towns near Catshill. He was trying to, for an undisclosed reason, find a way to create a serum of eternal life. You know, the usual thing mayors want to create while they are in office. Disregarding the fact that the mayor was quite clearly completely and utterly insane, I kept reading. Perhaps the trials would be pointless. But finally I was being presented with a challenge worthy of my time. If I succeeded, how much admiration would I earn? I would be the cock of the walk. I would be famous for eternity! Or rather, I suppose, the mayor would be. I digress.

            To speak plainly, I was well aware that this letter asked of me a foolish fancy. But I did not care. I only wished that time would move faster. If only I knew how to contact Dr. Mikkelsen. I dared not approach the mayor myself – what if I was being duped?

            Included at the end of the letter was an address – labelled “Eclipse Laboratories” – and a note from Dr. Mikkelsen. It read, “January 1st, 1846. 6:00 AM. No sooner, no later. I’ll be waiting for you, Mordecai.”

            Seeing that he’d used my given name didn’t faze me until a few days later, when I realized that he didn’t _know_ my given name. There was no way for him to know that. I convinced myself that he must have read the registry that Camille’s parish made us sign after our ceremony. That had to be it. But then I was bothered by why he chose to use it over my surname. He had said that he was acquainted with me, but to what extent?

            I mused over this for the rest of my honeymoon. Over thirty days, Camille had attempted to have intercourse with me twenty-eight times. Yes, I kept count. Given, some of those were on the same day. Not a single attempt of hers went very far, though. With her, I could not seem to become aroused. I wanted to hurt her by pointing out that I had had no such difficulty with Oliver, but I was still trying to repress that memory, so I held my tongue.

            When we returned to Catshill in early July, we both returned to my mansion. Camille was adamant about moving in with me, as was essentially custom. The sight of the mansion gave me a “home sweet home” sensation, but only for a moment.

            I walked inside ahead of Camille and heard her clear her throat behind me. Camille stood impatiently in the doorway, tapping her foot against the ground. Her arms were crossed over her corseted midsection.

            “What?” I asked, impatient.

            “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

            My face blanched. “Oh, no. Did I forget to pack something?”

            “The threshold!” Camille snapped.

            “What about it?”

            Vexed by my ignorance, Camille snarled, “Get over here!”

            Playing obedient, I trotted over to her side.

            “Lift me into your arms,” she commanded.

            “Oh, my dear lady,” I simpered, “I would not dare throw out my back so soon.”

            My wife’s face flushed in frustration. “You say such cruel words, you ghastly creature! For shame!”

            “You can walk yourself across the threshold,” I told her as I stepped back into my home. “I mean, it is _only_ a threshold.”

            “But what if I stumble?” Camille griped.

            “I do not see how you _could._ Besides, what does it matter?”

            “It matters a great deal!” She insisted, “If I stumble, it is bad luck! Evil spirits will make us rue the day!”

            I could not help but roll my eyes. “Camille, you and your bloody superstitions… Believe me when I say that any ‘evil spirits’ would cower in your presence.”

            “Stop it!” Camille stopped her foot. For once, she seemed genuinely hurt. “Mordecai, whether you like it or not, I am your wife! You vowed to support me till death do us part! You may be too blind to see it through your apparent hatred for me, but I _love_ you!” She reached up and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

            While displaying my disrespect for Camille was a way for me to cope, it never occurred to me that I could hurt her. Her crying was not a sight that I actually wanted to see, contrary to my expectations. Besides, the words she spoke then would, not entirely unbeknownst to me, stick with me for years to come. In fact, the last sentence is fitting given the circumstances that have caused me to write this. But I digress.

            With a low huff, I approached Camille. She had her eyes covered, still wiping away tears, so she was rather startled when I lift her into a bridal carry. She was heavy, but I could still walk a few feet with her in my arms, so I walked her over the threshold. Then, without saying a word, I put her back down onto her feet. She looked up at me in awe, as if surprised by my sudden maturity.

            “You are correct,” I answered her unspoken question, “you are my wife. As a husband, I have a duty to perform – a sacred honour made to you. Consider yourself lucky that you married a gentleman and not a devil.”

            Camille’s quiet gaze followed me as I left to carry our luggage inside. For the rest of the night, she did not speak to me. She only stared in wonder and smiled at me every so often. I feel that it was then that Camille finally started to truly respect me… and almost vice versa.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2 (July 6th, 2017): New scenes/setup. Removed Dr. Mikkelsen introduction scene, as previous chapter redid it. General fix-ups. Ran through Hemingway and made minor adjustments.  
> Edit (April 1st, 2017): New character, rewritten slightly, grammatical fixes.  
> Originally posted April 15th, 2016.

            During the months leading up to December of 1845, my relationship with Camille improved. I still by no means loved her, but at the very least, I could tolerate the idea of being around her. What I could not stand was the fact that I would have to spend the rest of my life with her. I needed time away with her, time which I never got. The only thing that got me through those two years were thoughts of Dr. Mikkelsen’s letter… and of Oliver. I had not seen the fellow since the left the reception. I prayed that he was all right, and that he did not hate me, though I had a feeling in my gut that he did. If I were him, I would hate me. It hurt to think that I had pushed him away for good, so I tried not to think about it too often.

            On Wednesday, December 31st, I actually got a chance to talk to the mayor in person. From him I got more information about what it was I would be doing the following day. He informed me that the location was Eclipse Laboratories. Last year, they had received Belsease, a long-stemmed plant with light blue bell flowers. Its fame came from legends of it bringing people back from the dead. However, it was also known for causing painful deaths in the living. The plant was thought to be extinct, but some anonymous benefactor had given a large supply to them. They needed someone to test it – to see if the legends were true. Someone to discover a way to harness it to create immortality.

            All in all, the entire project sounded rather shady to me. An anonymous benefactor? An extinct plant metaphorically arriving at our doorstep? Going on fairy tales? I was completely certain that the plan would strike an immediate brick wall. But then the mayor mentioned how much he would compensate me, and I figured: this guy would pay me whether I fail or not. It would entertain me, and I would be away from Camille for a vast majority of my day, every day, for at least a few months. So, of course, I agreed – I would have been stupid not to! In retrospect, though, saying yes was probably the less intelligent choice. I should have realized that the instant the mayor told me that I would be working for Dr. Mikkelsen. He told me that Mikkelsen had moved to Catshill only a few days before my wedding, but that he was supposedly a great scientist wherever he was from. He was in charge of the Eclipse Laboratories’ Belsease experiments. I was undeterred, however. Though we had made some peace, I would still do just about anything to get away from my wife.

            It annoyed Camille that I had made a decision without her, as she would much rather I stay at home and give her a child. But, since I was the man of the house, she had little say anyway. I was glad to finally have a chance to get away from her. Spending so much time with her, there were many, _many_ times that I considered Mr. Roarke’s suggestion of leaving her. If only it was that easy.

            On January 1st, I went to the address that Dr. Mikkelsen’s letter had included. The location was a modest white building on the outside. There was no sign declaring the building’s purpose. I supposed that this was due to the secrecy of the project. When I entered, I saw people in white lab coats. One man gave me a coat, and I slipped it on over my black suit jacket. The same man told me that Dr. Mikkelsen wanted to speak to me. He guided me to a lecture hall in the building, then left me on my own. For a long moment, I merely stood in the hallway. Things were moving so fast. I had not even announced my identity, but was already welcomed. It was as though everyone there knew me. Catshill was pretty small, but I recognized none of the faces I had seen so far. I was timid in pushing one of the doors before me open. I stepped inside. The lecture hall had descending rows of seats, as if it was in a high class school of some sort.

            There were some people, perhaps high government officials, sitting on the second-lowest row. At the front of the room, standing before a desk, was Dr. Mikkelsen. No one reacted to my entrance, nor to the door drifting shut behind me. I felt like a ghost. From there, I watched in silence.

            “We have a lot of natural drugs where I come from,” Dr. Mikkelsen announced to the business men sitting before him. “I think you men may find interest in one of them.” From his pocket, I watched him pull out with gloved hands a blue maple leaf. He held it up for everyone to see, including me judging by how high he held it. “This,” he declared, “is known as Whisper Plant. It may look harmless, but there is a reason why I am wearing gloves…” I swear he glanced up at me as he explained, “Because I still value my sanity, or at least, what little of that I have left.”

            Though he had made the remark in a dire, grim voice, the business men got a little bit of a laugh out of it. I, on the other hand, stared down at the scientist anxiously. Satisfied, the old man turned back to the men in expensive suits and continued.

            “Whisper Plant can enter the skin through the pores, but can also be ground up and taken orally or through the nose. It has a variety of effects: psychosis, hallucinations, violence, aggression. Insanity in general, among other things.”

            “If I may inquire, how the devil could such a frightful drug be useful to this city?” One of the men asked. “I wonder that you would even bring it here. Is it safe?”

            “One of those things I said was a lie,” was Dr. Mikkelsen’s reply. “Care to guess which one?”

            No one said a word. The scientist held out the plant toward one of the men, who flinched somewhat.

            “Take it.”

            “Good God, heavens no!”

            “You’ve failed to guess, then. The plant is safe to touch. Take it if you please, but be careful: it’s awfully brittle.”

            The man took the plant in his hands with careful reluctance, but he gave it back with haste. It was plain to see that he was afraid of the effects that the scientist had described. Who would not be?

            “I say, you have yet to answer the question.” Another man pointed out.

            “Consider this.” Dr. Mikkelsen brought the leaf up to his face, tapping it gently against his pale lips.  Each tap made the room ever tenser, but the plant did not so much as crack. “You have a prisoner. A convict, if you will. You know he knows more than he says, but he refuses to speak.”

            “Are you suggesting that we use this drug as a threat? As a means of scaring people into confessing? The public would crucify us.”

            “Not if it’s kept on the down low.”

            Not much more was said. It was hard to tell whether Dr. Mikkelsen’s grisly proposal was actually considered. Regardless, the men filed out of the room at their own leisure. I watched Dr. Mikkelsen as he returned the plant to his coat pocket and stepped around to the other side of the desk. He arranged some papers before speaking up. “Are you going to keep staring at me,” he questioned, “or are you going to come down here and talk to me?”

            “Oh, f—forgive me.” Again, I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Being alone in a room with Dr. Mikkelsen, even a room as large as this, frightened me for some reason. I tried to mask my nervousness. Then, I stepped down to the lower floor that the scientist was on and approached his desk. “Did I interrupt?”

            “Not at all. What did you think?”

            “Of what? You or that leaf?” I got no answer, so I decided to change my question. “Were you telling the truth? Can that leaf truly drive people mad?”

            “That is nothing to the purpose, Doctor. Besides, I’d have thought you would know those answers already.”

            I supposed he was telling the truth, then. “May I ask one more question?”

            “Make it quick.”

            “Is everyone so tall where you come from?”

            “Come on, I’ll show you where you’ll be working.” Dr. Mikkelsen ignored my question and started to walk toward the stairs.

            “You’ve left your desk in disarray…”

            “That’s not my desk.” I could almost hear the smirk in his voice.

* * *

            Dr. Mikkelsen walked me to an empty lab. The walls were grey and metallic-looking, and the floor was made of shining tiles. It was like nothing I had ever seen. At the time, I thought it looked futuristic. While I was busy gawking like a moron, Dr. Mikkelsen walked over to a bench in the centre of the room. What snapped me from my awe-induced trance was the scientist clearing his throat. I looked at him in silence.

            “I take it you like the lab?” He asked. “That’s good. You’ll be in here a lot, so if you would like me to have anything added or removed for you, let me know. I will have your request fulfilled before you can say Jack Robinson.”

            “I hardly think that will be necessary,” I told him, “but thank you. This lab is exquisite!”

            “The walls are re-enforced, and sound-proof,” Mikkelsen said. “You could scream your heart out in here, and no one outside of this room would hear a thing.”

            “You bluff,” I challenged.

            “Try me,” Mikkelsen encouraged.

            “I would rather not. I do not scream.”

            “I figured as much. The Cheshire I knew was soft-spoken. Good to see you didn’t do much changing over the years.”

            I managed a small, friendly smile for the sake of politeness. I was still oblivious to how Dr. Mikkelsen knew me. No memories of mine contained so much as a hint of him. As far as I was concerned, he was a complete stranger. However, I felt it would be awkward at this point to confess this. Better to let him believe whatever he wanted to. He was now my superior, after all.

            On the bench were test tubes and similar instruments for my using. There was also a cage fit for a rodent, but it was empty.

            “Why the cage?” I inquired.

            “Why, that’s for your test subjects,” Mikkelsen answered. “Meet your first subject, Cheshire.” I watched him as he pulled from his coat pocket, by its tail, a live mouse. “His name is Henry.”

            I stared, taking in the sight of the rodent. Or rather the fact that Mikkelsen had pulled it from his coat pocket without a care in the world. Even more troublesome was that he had named it. “You’ve had ‘Henry’ in your pocket this whole time?”

            “Of course.”

            “Why not leave him in this cage?”

            “Because it saves me time in doing this.” Then, as casual as ever, Mikkelsen grabbed Henry’s tiny head and twisted it the wrong way. The entire lab was silent but for the faint snapping sound produced by Henry’s breaking spinal cord.

            I stared at the now-dead mouse in a stunned silence. When I opened my mouth to speak, I realized I had nothing to say. Without a word, Dr. Mikkelsen opened the cage and dropped Henry’s corpse into it.

            “The Belsease is in this wooden box here,” the scientist gestured to a box on the parallel side of the table. “Now, I suggest you get to work before Henry there becomes ripe.”

            “I say…” I mumbled, but ultimately had nothing more to add.

            Dr. Mikkelsen left me to do my work. I still remember how uncertain I was when I first began. I had melted a petal from a Belsease flower into a syringe, but had no idea where to inject the dead rodent. By fluke, I decided upon one of its carotid arteries. I do not know what I expected, for I was unsurprised when the mouse did not stir. Another petal, melted down and injected into the rat, and two more after that. Nothing.

            I was having an internal debate about whether I should try melting down a further petal when I heard a tiny squeak. My eyes shot to the mouse lying in the cage, and to my amazement, it moved! I knelt down to take a closer look at it. Sure enough, the tiny rodent was alive once more, though I had to admit it seemed rather delirious.

            “My God… This cannot be.” I remember mumbling to myself.

            However, all good things must come to an end. As quickly as I had brought the test subject to life, it perished yet again. I decided not to use anymore Belsease on Henry, for I was sure that nothing could bring it back from its second demise.

* * *

            It was a day in mid-February when Dr. Mikkelsen entered and found me exasperated. I recall that I was staring at the cage, now containing seven dead mice and two live ones. He approached and examined my handiwork, then stared at me. My hair was a mess from me tugging at it in frustration. I sat in front of the bench with my hands on my jaw, fingers scratching idly at my chinstrap. I was pouting. I had expected a challenge, but I was baffled beyond my limit.

            “I leave you to your work for a month, and you go and kill half a dozen mice,” Mikkelsen quipped. When I did not respond, he added, “It’s fine. I expected more casualties.”

            “I do not get it,” I said. “Most mice die upon infusion. Some experience no changes whatsoever.”

            “What is it that you’re doing?”

            I turned my chair around and began to explain my hypothesis. “I figured that, to infuse the Belsease without a negative reaction from the body, I should first dilute it in plasma. So, I drained the first mouse you gave me and used its blood. But this only lessened the negative reaction to a small extent in some mice. The rest die faster than before!”

            I watched as, for the first time, Dr. Mikkelsen grinned at me. It was not a happy grin. It was more of a “you foolish, foolish creature” type of grin. Then, he began to chuckle. Before I knew it, the foreigner was laughing at me outright.

            “What is it?” I asked. “What the devil is so funny?”

            “Oh, Cheshire. Cheshire, Cheshire, Cheshire,” Mikkelsen guffawed. “Supposedly a master in bloodwork, but doesn’t have a clue about blood types!”

            I furrowed my brows in confusion. “Whatever can you mean? ‘Blood types’?”

            “Oh, yeah, that’s right,” the man snickered to himself, “Karl Landsteiner isn’t even _alive_ yet. I guess I would be more surprised if you _did_ know about blood types.”

            “Do you wish to clarify?” I asked. “Do you know where my theory went wrong?”

            Dr. Mikkelsen composed himself and stood up straight. In a serious voice, he told me, “Dr. Cheshire, your theory went wrong the moment you brought blood into the equation.”

* * *

            It took me until late March to come up with a new plan of action. The mice and rats were not reliable test subjects. They would either not react, would die shortly after infusion if alive, or would die as soon as they resurrected if not. Besides, I was not working on a product for rodents. It was risky, but I needed to determine the effects of undiluted Belsease on a human.

            The first time I turned the syringe on myself, I remember how my life flashed before my eyes. I worried that I may perish like the rats. What if the effects were the same? Two and 1/4th petals injected into my median cubital vein brought on a sharp pain and a wave of vertigo. I made haste in pinching my hand over the problem area, but it did little to help. The pain surged up from my arm to my chest, and from there it spread out across my entire body. It burned like the depths of Hell. Overwhelmed, I collapsed to the floor. Down there, I writhed in my agony.

            I do not know when Dr. Mikkelsen entered, but when I glanced up, I saw him staring down at me. It was impossible to see his eyes through his dark spectacles, but I did not need to. Something about his body language and the deep frown on his face got his disapproval through to me. No, I realized, it was not disapproval. Rather, it seemed to be… _contempt._ He seemed to be enjoying my suffering, but the way he looked at me showed only hatred for me. Without a word, he walked out of the lab. Shortly after, the effects of the injection passed.

            I was still worried, but it seemed as though I would not suffer the same fate as the rats. I had no way, though, of telling whether my little stunt had made me immortal. I argued not. Surely it would take more than two and 1/4th petals to make a human invulnerable to the hands of time. But there was too much of a risk involved with experimenting on a human to find out. I supposed that, if I were to be careful, I could be my own guinea pig. From that point onwards, Dr. Mikkelsen checked on me frequently. I always made sure to test on myself whenever he was not watching me… which was rare. He kept such a strict watch on me that I began to wonder if he actually cared about what his other scientists did.

            Meanwhile, at home, Camille had begun to insist that I was intentionally avoiding her. I could not disagree, as she was quite right. I chose to remain silent on the subject, though, as I did with many others.

            “Do you even love me anymore, Mordecai?” She shouted at me one evening in the midst of one of our frequent arguments.

            “Mrs. Cheshire, I’m not even sure I know _how_ to describe what I feel for you,” I snapped back, “but I certainly would never have thought to call it ‘love’.” I was feeling particularly impatient and only wanted to go to sleep. Dealing with her was not something I could do at that moment.

            Camille pouted and crossed her arms. She was insistent on always looking her best, so even though we were alone at home, she was still wearing a corset. “You’ll love me soon enough,” she groused. “Just you wait and see.”

            Even now, I fail to comprehend Camille’s logic.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit (July 7th, 2017): Added new scenes. Changed final scene. General touch-ups. Ran through Hemingway and made minor adjustments.  
> Originally posted May 8th, 2016.

            On a morning in April, I was sitting at a table outside of a restaurant. Using myself as a test subject had by now been taking a serious toll on me. My lips, once a lively pink colour, were permanently paled. They appeared almost lavender. I looked very cold, though it was quite warm outside. Cold sweats and shivers were common, and nausea was frequent. It went hand-in-hand with vertigo. My throat was hoarse, and to a degree, I was breathless. Even so, I still continued to persist with living as I always had.

            Dr. Mikkelsen had been working me into the ground. I liked to be preoccupied, but I needed a break. So, instead of heading straight to the lab as I was expected to, I decided to lounge for a moment.

            Of all the people I could have seen on the street that morning, Mr. Roarke was the one I least expected. When our eyes met, I froze. It had been two years since I had seen him. While it was a relief to see that he was still alive, I still felt awkward around him. I did not want him to see me like this. At the same time, though, I dared not move.

            His face melted into one of mixed emotions. Part of him seemed pleased to see me, but the other looked sad and concerned.

            “Don’t come here,” I found myself begging in my thoughts. “Don’t talk to me. Walk away.”

            Since telepathy was obviously not a skill I possessed, Oliver disobeyed my wishes and stepped closer. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he only sat across from me and stared.

            After a period of silence, I mumbled, “I know.”

            “Mordecai…”

            I was in a state of disarray. I had neglected to wear a hat, and I had not done my bowtie up properly. But I had to presume that Mr. Roarke cared little for those things, since he often looked the same. It was more likely my ill face, chapped lips and dark bags under my eyes, that was not sitting right with him.

            “It’s nice to see you,” he muttered. “I dare say, I worried that I may never see you again. But now I see you, and…”

            I completed, “I look like death?” Then, I gave him a graceful but dismissive wave of my hand. “You needn’t worry for me. My work is almost finished.”

            “You look sick,” he pointed out.

            “I am fine.” I proceeded to let out a dry cough.

            “Where have you been? What have you been doing that has made you so dreadfully ill?”

            I did not answer. The project was still secret. Though I knew he would not tell a soul, I could not reveal the project to Oliver.

            “Chemicals, right? Something to do with bloodwork? If I’m not mistaken, it does seem that you are… short for test subjects.” The way he said this was careful and cautious. It surprised me to find that he had some idea of what I was doing. Was it so obvious? Perhaps he knew me better than I credited him for. Regardless, I appreciated his vague wording.

            “I’m fine with what I have,” I told him. “Testing is going well…”

            Mr. Roarke shook his head. “I don’t believe it is.”

            “This is the effects of…” I paused. I had trouble figuring out how to coherently word my sentence. Harder still was keeping my task unclear to him. “… prior… no, um, _previous_ samples. Older… Prior tests.”

            “Are you alright?”

            “Yes,” I said, but my head shook itself “no”. I felt like I would be sick, so I brought my hand to my mouth and lowered my head.

            In truth, Mr. Roarke probably did have a reason for concern. I had been working non-stop for four months on something that was bad for my health. He had not seen me for two years, and when he did find me, he found me to be almost entirely incapacitated. I felt like I was burdening him somehow. Would he feel obliged to care for me?

            I pulled out the pocket watch I carried on my person and looked at the time. To no surprise, I was late. Wobbling on my feet, I managed to stand. “Mr. Roarke, I must go.”

            Mr. Roarke looked up at me, worry written across his face. “Go? Where?”

            “I am late for work.”

            “Wait,” the tall man beckoned when I walked past him. “Please, don’t leave me again.”

            I ignored him and lowered my head. I began walking brisker. By the time I was halfway to Eclipse Laboratories, he had stopped following me… or so I thought. When I went inside, I was careful not to be seen by too many people. I did not want word getting to Dr. Mikkelsen that I was late. Something told me that he already knew, though I was not about to take any chances.

            I entered my lab and had made it to the desk when suddenly the door flew open. When I turned and saw someone very tall, I at first glance thought it to be Dr. Mikkelsen. My eyes widened when I realized that it was Oliver.

            The slender man stepped further in, closing the door behind himself. As he began to approach me, I met him halfway with my hands extended to him.

            “Oliver,” I hissed worriedly, “what are you _doing_ here?”

            “I followed you,” he confessed. “I couldn’t sit back and let you cut me out of your life again.”

            “You have to leave. If you are seen—” I tried to warn Oliver, but he cut me off by grabbing me and pulling me close. He arched his tall body into mine, but I still had to stand on my toes.

            “Mordecai, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you. It’s been two years, and every moment was spent pining for you.” He pushed my head closer into his breastbone, snuggling his own into the crook of my shoulder. “I don’t want you to leave me again. Not now, not ever. Give me your sacred honour, please.”

            I could make no such vow. After the sinful act we had committed, I could not bear to look at Oliver anymore. It hurt too much. I would not be able to hide what we had done if I were to be around him. But, at the same time, there was a feeling in the pit of my stomach. A feeling that told me not to reject him again.

            Oh, I had missed the fellow terribly. How would I live, knowing I had passed up my only chance to be by his side again? So, I pulled my face free of his coat and let my heart do the talking. “I won’t leave you,” it said through my mouth.

            Oliver looked down and met my gaze. I watched him grow emotional. His lavender eyes welled up with tears. Then, he kissed me. Again and again, he kissed me, each more passionate than the last. I did not fight him, though I knew I should have. Dr. Mikkelsen could enter at any moment. If he were to see Oliver and I like this… But that was a risk I was willing to take.

            We went behind my desk so that we were hidden if anyone entered the lab. There, Oliver and I sank to the floor. Still he kept kissing me. I was mildly alarmed when his tongue entered my mouth, but I did my best not to fight. While I was not sexually invested in anything we were or ever had done, I did not want to ostracise Oliver.

            “What have you done to me?” I asked in a breath. There was no answer.

            The tall man reached down and began undoing the buttons to my trousers. The undoing of the buttons was followed by a sound I had grown familiar with. I became petrified with fear, but not before roughly grabbing one of Oliver’s wrists.

            I was right to stop him, for only a few seconds later, the door to the lab swung open. Everything was still and silent but for the door swinging itself slowly shut. Oliver looked at me, and me at him. Then the tall man’s hands wrapped around my throat. Gently, he began to throttle me. It confused me until I realized that Oliver was making it seem as though we were fighting rather than indulging in unnatural pleasures.

            The intruder began to approach the desk, so Oliver put more feeling into his throttling. Our cover was blown anyway, so my friend accused: “You monster! What ungodly things have you been doing with these chemicals?” As he said this, I pretended to struggle. I squinted my eyes and peaked up to find Dr. Mikkelsen staring down at us.

            The scientist allowed us to continue our performance for a beat. Then, without a word, he reached over the desk. Vials tipped over as he extended his arm down and grabbed the collar of Oliver’s suit. With unprecedented strength, he used that one arm to lift Oliver off of me. He dragged the tall man across the desk, knocking over most everything on it. Vials smashed and my latest sample spread across the floor. I jumped to my feet at once, watching as Mikkelsen whipped Oliver into the wall.

            When my friend slumped to the floor, Dr. Mikkelsen stomped closer to him. Using both hands this time, he grabbed him by his lapels and hoisted him to his feet.

            I had seen what Mikkelsen was capable of with only one arm. Using both, I was afraid of what would happen, so I begged, “Stop!”

            Mikkelsen ignored me. To my relief, he did not throw Oliver again. Instead, he got right up in his face and snarled at him. “Distract Dr. Cheshire at your peril,” he threatened. “This mission will not be compromised because of an impertinent fuck-up like you!”

            Offended, I shouted, “Dr. Mikkelsen! Language!”

            My superior gave me a wry look. “My _deepest_ apologies, doctor,” he droned. Then, he turned his attention back to Oliver. After pulling him off of the wall, he grabbed him by the back of his suit again. “My other workers will escort you out. If you so much as _think_ of returning here, I will personally make your life a living Hell.”

            In response, Oliver cocked his head to the side and spat at him. The scientist was unfazed. They left the lab, leaving me on my own. I was nervous. It was my fault that Oliver had come here in the first place. If they were going to punish him, he did not deserve it. It was my fault! I had not stopped him!

            Soon, Dr. Mikkelsen returned. He did not move his head in my direction. Instead, he went straight to the puddle that remained of my latest sample.

            “Forgive me,” I stammered in a low voice, “I should have cleaned that while you were away.”

            Dr. Mikkelsen said nothing. He did not even acknowledge me. Instead, he removed his glove from his left hand. Then he knelt down and dabbed two of his fingers into the liquid. He brought his dampened fingers up to his lips.

            I did not know what he was doing. I was too flustered. “Forgive me,” I repeated. “I… I will clean this.”

            I do not know what I expected. But whatever it was, it was not Dr. Mikkelsen licking the chemical off of his fingertips. As he did the one thing I had not foreseen, I stared at him. The way he used his tongue was almost seductive, but at the same time, utterly horrifying.

            “That… is not for oral consumption,” was all I managed to say.

            Still kneeling, Mikkelsen flicked his eyes up at me. For the first time, I was able to see over his spectacles. His eyes were a startling shade of light blue. If I did not know any better, I would have sworn that they were glowing. He wet his pale, chapped lips with his tongue. Then, he averted his eyes from me and shook the rest of the liquid off of his fingers.

            “It is not finished,” he spoke all of a sudden.

            “What?” I asked, having not been expecting him to speak.

            The scientist stood and slipped his glove back onto his hand. “Your work. It is incomplete.”

            I wanted to argue. To point out that it would _remain_ incomplete for that much longer since he had so carelessly destroyed my equipment. To demand why he was so violent to Oliver. But, instead, all I was able to do was raise my finger and open my mouth. Mikkelsen stared at me expectantly, but I was unable to speak. What would I say? He was my superior, and quite clearly, not a force to be reckoned with. He had thrown Oliver, a man of his same height, like a ragdoll. Imagining what he could do to me – a man standing at only 169 centimetres – was frightening enough.

            “Your fly is open,” he pointed out.

            “Pardon?”

            “Your trousers. They’re undone.”

            I glanced down. It had completely slipped my mind that Oliver had been unbuttoning my trousers. I flushed as I began to redo my trousers in a panic. Dr. Mikkelsen smirked at me.

            “I do hope I didn’t interrupt anything… _personal_ ,” he said.

            “I do not know what you mean,” I stammered.

            “This isn’t my first rodeo, doctor.”

            “I do not know what _that_ means.”

            Dr. Mikkelsen got closer to me and hushed, “I know lovebirds when I see them.”

            I gawked at him, playing offended. “How could you accuse me of such a horrid thing? For shame, Dr. Mikkelsen!”

            I was not fooling him. In fact, the more I argued, the more amused he seemed to become.

            “I would never! I am a married man!”

            “But you don’t love her.”

            “I…” I wanted to argue, but could not.

            “You don’t love Mr. Roarke, either.”

            That offended me. Before I knew what I was saying, I refuted, “That’s not true!” When Mikkelsen beamed at me, I realized my mistake, and I slapped my hand over my mouth. “I mean…” I spoke, muffled behind my hand. Then, I lowered my arm and head in shame. “I do not know _what_ I mean…”

            “I understand.”

            “You don’t! I… I love him. But not in a sexual way.”

            Dr. Mikkelsen placed his hand onto my shoulder. Or rather, I should say, he _clamped_ it. “I _understand_ ,” he insisted. “I had a relationship like yours.”

            I looked up at the man. “Did… Did you?”

            He nodded at me. “Once, I fell for a fellow man. I was married, as you are. I was not attracted to him,” he confessed. “Rather, I was attracted to the _idea_ of him – the idea that he could give me the pleasure that my wife did not.” Though he was telling me a tragic story, Mikkelsen seemed composed. Almost… _too_ composed, as though this had occurred to someone else. “When my wife passed, he left me as well.”

            “I am sorry,” I mumbled.

            The man shook his head. “Rejection is a frightening weapon, doctor. Use it sparingly, for it can change people.”

            “Can it?” I questioned, as curious and naïve as a small child.

            Dr. Mikkelsen gazed down at me, as though I should have known his next word before he said it. “Violently.”

* * *

            On the first day of July, it had been a week since I finally completed my work, dubbed the Eclipse Potion. Laboratory rats were finally able to survive the process. They could not seem to die if I tried to starve them out, or removed their water source. Of course, the effect on humans was still debateable, but my illness had passed. I had seen no negative effects on myself since. In fact, I felt healthier than ever. It had to be worth a shot.

            I was running late. I was expected at the town square in ten minutes, but I still had to prepare the sample. When I got to my lab, it surprised me to find Dr. Mikkelsen inside. He was loading needles with a light blue liquid – the Eclipse Potion, I had to assume. When he noticed that I had entered, he looked at me.

            “You were late,” he told me, “so I did this for you.”

            “Thank you kindly.” I let out a sigh of relief.

            The scientist picked up a box full of loaded needles. On the top of the pile was an injector gun. “Let’s go,” he said.

            “Wait, you are coming along?”

            “Of course. I want to see the result of your work.” Something about the way he said this gave me a bad feeling. However, I dismissed it. Dr. Mikkelsen had always frightened me, but he had never actually done anything to deserve my fear. Warmly, I nodded at him.

            We arrived at the town square just in time. The mayor took his place at the podium. Almost everyone in town was present. I was not the one to do the speech about how “amazing” this creation was. No, that was the mayor’s job. He announced to the crowd that it had a “low” cost. Anyone willing to pay could become immortal. Of course, the cost was not low. It was quite a lot, even for people of middle class like my wife and I. But that was a matter of little concern to the public. They would pay anything for immortality.

            Camille insisted that she receive the injection first, seeing as she was my wife. She paid, but I did not want her to be immortal. It was my job now, though, so I injected the Eclipse Potion into her arm. She bitched about the pain, but I ignored her.

            One by one, I gave injections to at least half of the population. I had finished giving an injection to a man I was vaguely acquainted with when I saw Camille swoon. That was not like her. When I looked at her, I saw that she had become rather pasty. She seemed disoriented.

            “Camille?” I held the unloaded injector gun in my hand even as I approached her.

            Vacantly, she looked over at the sound of my voice. She had to cough before speaking, and when she did speak, her voice was hoarse. “Darling? Darling, I… I do not feel well.”

            When I looked around, I noticed that others I had injected were also starting to look ill. It did not make sense to me. Confused, I turned my attention back onto Camille, only to watch her collapse to the ground. “Camille!”

            I dropped the injector gun. After kneeling down, I picked Camille up. She was not moving. I shook her somewhat. People were staring. I heard others I had injected coughing. Someone else fell over. The crowd started to panic as they realized that something was wrong. I felt Camille’s neck for a pulse, praying for once that she would say something. I felt nothing.

            “Dr. Mikkelsen,” I breathed. Hysteria started to come over me as I realized what I had done. “Dr. Mikkelsen!” When I turned around, I saw him. He had not moved from where he stood during the mayor’s speech. The moment our eyes seemed to meet, I saw it happen.

            A small smile spread across his face.

            My eyes widened. This was _his_ doing. But before I could say anything, his face shifted into one of horror.

            “What have you done?” He accused me loud enough for the crowd to hear. “You wretched creature! You vile killer! Murder! _Murder!_ ”

            The portion of the crowd that was still alive turned their eyes onto me. Some in fear, most in judging hatred. It was plain to see that they wanted my head on a platter.

            “No, I… I didn’t…” I tried to defend myself, but it was no use. Horror and shock had both seized my throat. They would not have believed me anyway.

            People began to scream. Grief and rage filled the air around me. As some of my former acquaintances started to approach me, I stood up. Helpless, I again turned my head to look at Dr. Mikkelsen. The look on his face was one of hatred. But it was also one of satisfaction. It was as though he believed that I was getting my just deserts.

            I backed away from the increasingly-furious mob that was beginning to form in front of me. Some of them had already found weapons in the street. People were dead or dying only a few feet from me. But it was not my fault!

            … Was it?

            “Mordecai!”

            I turned around, only to be immediately pulled into an embrace by Oliver. My head hurt. I did not move. The yelling behind me was all I could hear as I stared blindly into the distance.

            Oliver pulled back and grabbed the sides of my face. I could feel the expression of uncertain terror on my face as my unfocused eyes made contact with his.

            “I love you,” he said to me in an emotional whisper.

            I said nothing. Now was not the time for this!

            Undeterred, Oliver pulled me into a passionate kiss. I could hear the mob get louder in disgust. I quickly realized that Oliver’s plan may have been to distract the mob, or perhaps to make himself a target as well. I did not want him to suffer because of me.

            In one violent movement, I shoved Oliver and leap away from him. He looked somewhat hurt by my rejection. I felt tears beginning to well up in my eyes. So I pushed past him and started to run for my home. The mob chased after me, and I do not think that any of them bothered to stay behind to prosecute Oliver.

            I ran and ran and ran. When I finally got to my home, I dashed up the stairs to my door, nearly tripping a few times. I barged in and slammed the door shut behind me, locking it. I took a few steps back to distance myself from it. Would they break it down? Would they light the mansion on fire and burn me alive?

            I crumpled to the floor and quivered, waiting for what was sure to be my end. I thought not of Camille, nor of Dr. Mikkelsen, but of only Oliver. I wondered if he was okay, and if he could ever find it in himself to forgive me.

            “I love you too,” I puled, “Oliver…”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit (July 7th, 2017): Changed the scenes. General touch-ups. Ran through Hemingway and made minor adjustments.  
> Originally posted May 8th, 2016.

            I had no idea what time it was when I awoke. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw that I was alone. This surprised me for only a moment, before I remembered what had happened to Camille. I was grieved, but not for the right reasons. Part of me was happy that Camille was dead, but I was upset because it was I who had killed her. I might not have minded so much otherwise. I was a horrible husband. But I did not care.

            With groggy feet, I made my way out into the upstairs hallway. All was silent. I could see light coming from the windows up here, but downstairs was pitch black. Oliver… I had made a promise to Oliver that I would not leave him again. I had to leave. I had to see him. I was afraid of what would happen if anyone saw me, but it did not matter even if they killed me. All I wanted was to see Oliver.

            I approached the front doors and tried to pull them open. But they did not budge, not even a bit. I kept tugging, but nothing worked. So, I pushed myself against them. That did not answer either. Eventually, I crumbled down to the floor. I had no strength. There was no more food. No more water.

            There were windows on either side of the front doors. No light came in through them, as they were covered from the outside. Boarded up, to be more precise. When I finally did stand, I looked at one of them.

            A few measly boards were keeping me from fulfilling my promise? I would not have it.

            I shuffled my feet, dragging my weak body into the kitchen. I was still able to pick up one of the chairs. Then, I returned to the window. I worked myself up until I could feel adrenaline giving me strength.

            I was going to see Oliver. No wood – no _obstacle_ in the _world_ was going to stop me! I let out a hoarse war cry and charged at the window. The glass broke, but the force of the chair striking the wood did nothing more than make me fall over. Trying to get up resulted in a sharp pain emanating from the hand I had laid down for support. But I managed to stand up regardless. Using what little light I had, I removed my glove and examined the wound on my palm.

            The first thing I noticed was that my blood was not red. It was instead a light blue colour – the colour of Dr. Mikkelsen’s eyes. The colour of Eclipse Potion.

            I quickly took my eyes off of the wound and shook my head. Famine must have been getting the better of me. I believed myself to be hallucinating. I had to be.

            With slow, purposeful steps, I inspected the entire lower floor. All windows and possible exits were securely boarded up. Deep down, though, I was aware that I had already known. I had lost track of time, but I knew that it had to have been at least three months since I had been trapped in here.

            I returned once more to the doors and pounded on them weakly. “Oliver.” I tried to shout, but my throat was dry. “ _Oliver_. Somebody, please. Let me out…” 

            It was not for another month that I had a frightening realization. I had not starved to death. Nor had thirst killed me. Perhaps the Eclipse Potion had worked on me. Perhaps I _was_ immortal. Perhaps I would be trapped in here forever. But that did not make sense to me. It had killed everyone else!

            “That wasn’t Eclipse Potion,” my inner voice suggested to me one day. It was possible that Dr. Mikkelsen had planned more than I anticipated. That he had swapped Eclipse Potion out for a similar, but lethal, concoction. That bastard. If I ever got out, I would throttle him.

            The grandfather clock in the upstairs hallway stopped after a while, as did my pocket watch in turn. I did not bother to fix either. I lost track of time. I would simply sit and read. I had a vast library to go through, and though reading for days on end bored me, I had nothing else to do. When I was not reading, I was sleeping. I dreamt often of Oliver.

            Most days, I felt the same: lethargic and depressed. But then, one night, I felt different. I felt angry. Livid, even. I felt as though, if I were to cross paths with any living being, I would slaughter them without hesitation. But above all else, I felt _powerful._

            When my nose started to drip some sort of liquid, I hurried to the bedroom mirror and gazed at myself. To my horror, both of my eyeballs, sclerae and all, were light blue! In the dark, they glowed, however dimly. Viscous, glowing liquid of the same colour – that of Eclipse Potion – ran from my nostrils. Soon after, it was also running from my eyes. My tear ducts burned. I looked back a further time, after a similar burning arose in my throat. When I coughed up the liquid pooling at the back of my mouth, it ran down the corners of my mouth. It, too, was the same.

            Either I was losing my mind (very likely), or the mirror was lying to me. Those were the only two acceptable options in my mind. So, in my unpredictable fury, I whipped a book at the mirror. It exploded into shards of glass all over the desk it sat upon. It felt good to release the anger. That night, I put a few holes in the walls, some made with my bare hands, others with objects I found. With the morning, my rage passed. Again, I felt drained and low. In the mirror shards, I could see that my reflection had turned to normal but for the smears of blue on my face. I rubbed them away, and then I was back to normal.

            Then again, I never would be “normal” again, would I? My skin was as white as a ghost. My eyes were sunken and ringed by dark bags. I was ghastly in my slimness. However, despite all of this, still I lived. Somehow, I still had enough energy to pace the halls every other day. Else, I was bedridden.

            Sometime later, I again had a night of madness. More light blue liquid expelled itself from my eyes, nose, and mouth. The idea that I would have the same hallucination twice was no surprise, but I felt similar as well. I was angry and had strength. That night, I decided not to waste it. I went downstairs and slammed myself into the front doors. I pulled with all of my strength. To my amazement, I was able to rip the doors open. Getting through the wooden planks nailed over the doorway was a different story. If those planks were ever to come off, it would have to be from the outside. So, I tried pounding on the planks of the windows instead. Not a single window’s planks gave way, even with the inhuman level of strength I felt I possessed. Again, by the time the sun rose the next day, I had returned to my senses. Could I expect it to happen again? If there was a pattern, I could not figure it out. I had long since lost any sense of time.

            There, to my surprise, soon came a day when I ran out of books to read. I had read them all, most more than once. I began to pace a lot to pass the time, and sometimes I would work out. I was not very good at the latter, since I was still scrawny and lacked strength, but over time I became a bit better.

            I started to talk to myself. When I first began doing it, I thought nothing of it. I heard a voice in my head – my own voice. It would start conversations with me. It was only polite to reply. As I was having a hearty conversation with myself one day, it struck me like a brick wall: I was sitting in a dark room laughing at myself like a child with an imaginary friend. The voice in my head silenced itself as I stared at the far wall. Was I losing my mind?

            “Am I going mad?” I asked.

            “Most assuredly, chap,” the voice replied.

            “Dear me. I dare say that’s a shame.”

            “Is it not?”

            “Whatever shall I do?”

            “Keep talking.”

            “Oh, that’s right. I don’t have a choice, do I?”

            “Not particularly.”

            I giggled at myself.

            Eventually, the boredom was too much. I was stir crazy. I would engage in harmful pastimes including trying to bash my head through the bedroom wall and seeing how hard I could break things.

            I went mad once more. In my fury this time, I was more destructive than normal. As I destroyed furniture and whatnot, I roared curses. Though I knew he could not hear them, they were directed at Dr. Mikkelsen.

            “You no-good, double-dealing pig,” I screamed at a vase on a stand in the lounge, imagining it to be the scientist himself. “Why did you do it? Do you worship the golden calf more than you do morals? More than you do _human life??_ Everything must be _in such fine goddamned fettle_ in _your_ bloody garden _!! Confound_ you, you uncivil devil! _Damn you straight to the deepest layers of Hell!!_ ” I struck the vase, and it shattered on the floor.

            Afterwards, I was appalled by my own ungodly screeching.

            One day, I ripped all of the hair out of my scalp, clump by clump. The pile of thick black hair amused me for a while. I tried to choke myself with it, but failed. Eventually it grew back, and I allowed it to grow back to the length it had been before. It grew past that and was incredibly messy, but I cared not.

            I was sleeping on the bedroom floor one day when a sound downstairs awoke me. It sounded as though someone had opened the front doors, but that was impossible. That would have meant that they had removed the boards. I silently stood up and walked to my bedroom door. I was cautious in opening it. Once it was opened, I poked my head out.

            “Damn, it’s dark as _shit_ in here,” I heard a man say downstairs.

            There were people in my mansion. I pulled my head back into my bedroom and stood there in panic. My only thought was that they had broken in to torture me. Maybe they would finally finish me off. Still, I was frightened. I had to talk myself into it, but I soon stepped out into the upstairs hallway. Someone was coming up the stairs to my right. A woman was downstairs, in the kitchen by my calculations, shouting at someone in another room. I turned to the right, accepting whatever fate held for me.

            Up the stairs came a strangely-dressed pale man with messily slicked back black hair. He wore a black and red scarf, a black jacket, and odd grey denim pants. He was taller than me, but not as much as Oliver was, and he did not look very formal. I watched him for a moment before he turned his head and saw me, at which point he emit a short cry and jumped back. I did not react. I only stared at him, though every muscle in my body was telling me to run. If I did not know any better, though, it seemed as though he was more afraid of me than I was of him. It was as if he did not expect me to be there.

            “Collin?” The woman called, coming into the lobby by the sound of it.

            The man in front of me, who I had to assume was named Collin and was possibly married, shouted, “Liz, there’s a man up here!”

            “Very funny!” At the time, I could not identify the tone in her voice, but I later determined that it was sarcasm.

            “I’m fuckin’ serious!” Collin pulled out an odd tube-shaped device. With a small click, it shone a light on me. I had to look away and cover my face, because the light was so bright. “Jesus,” he said to me, “you look like hell. What are you doing here?”

            I did not speak to him, for I had to think for too long on _how_ to speak. The woman, “Liz”, came up the stairs.

            “Holy fucking shit,” she gasped, revealing that she had the same foul mouth as her husband. I could not see her very well due to the light in my eyes, but she appeared to pull some sort of square block off of her waistline. She spoke into it, announcing, “Kurtis, Roger, you guys need to get up here right now! There’s someone in here!”

            There was a crackling noise that made me flinch, and I heard from the block, “A guy? ‘The fuck are you talkin’ about, babe?”

            “The block talks?” I asked in a low, hoarse voice. I was not sure if she heard me, since she only gave me a weird look.

            “Yeah, a guy. He looks… really… err…” She tried to search for words to describe me, looking me over from head to toe as she did. But she found none, so she gave up. “Get in here!”

            Collin stepped a little closer to me, causing me to take a step back. “Whoa, whoa,” he hushed, “It’s alright. We’re not gonna hurt you.”

            “Why are you here?” I asked in a quivering voice.

            Collin and Liz exchanged a look. In response to some unspoken question, Liz said to him, “We might as well.”

            Collin nodded in response, then turned his attention back to me. “We, uh,” he began awkwardly. “Well, we broke in. We make indie films, see. We thought this would make a good set.”

            I understood less than half of what he said, but I did not respond.

            “What are _you_ doing here, then? C’mon, you’ve gotta give me somethin’.” The man, although lazy in his speech, sounded quite friendly. He seemed to be trying to make light of the situation. I was unsure how I felt about that.

            “This…” I stammered. “This is my home.”

            “Your home?” Collin asked incredulously.

            “Yes, my home. I… I live here.”

            “Right…” He didn’t seem to believe me. “What’s your name?”

            I had to think about the answer to that question. I had not used my name in what felt like an eternity. “… Che—… Um… Chesh—… —ire. Yes, that’s right… Cheshire…”

            Collin and Liz laughed a little bit.

            “What, like, _Doctor_ Cheshire?” asked the woman in a joking tone.

            I did not understand why my name was funny, but I nodded. Both of them exploded into laughter in front of me. From downstairs came two more men that I could not see clearly.

            “Okay, very funny,” Liz snickered. “We’ve all heard the legend. Who are you, for _real?_ ”

            Legend? What legend? My eyes moved between the two – now four – people in front of me. “Dr. Cheshire,” I answered her question again. “I… I worked on the Eclipse Potion, under the command of Dr. Mikkelsen. I’ve been trapped in here since… July of 1846.”

            The four people that stood in the hallway were all silent. They all seemed their confused or perplexed, but for Collin. He looked stunned. I watched as he pulled a glowing square object from his pocket and looked down into its light.

            “Really, Collin? You’re checking your texts?” Liz complained.

            “No, just making sure it’s still 2014.”

            I straightened my posture in surprise. “2014? Whatever can you mean?”

            Collin lowered the light he had pointed at me and showed me the glowing square. I flinched at first, but then leaned in and looked at it. It showed a clock. Written underneath was a date: “Thursday, January 9th, 2014”.

            “That’s the date today, buddy,” Collin said. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but it isn’t possible that you’re from 1840 or whatever.”

            I stared at the little glowing thing for a long moment, paralyzed. The year was 2014? That was not possible. Oliver would have died by then. _I_ would have died by then. I had to see Oliver. I shook my head, slowly at first, but then somewhat wildly.

            Collin looked back at his friends, and I took that moment to try pushing past them. The two men behind Collin and Liz, one with blond hair and another of African descent, caught me.

            “Whoa, hey, wait!” Collin shouted.

            “Oliver!” I tried to scream the name as loud as I could, but I could not go above a low shout since my throat was long dried out.

            “Calm down, man, it’s okay!”

            Liz stepped closer. “You mentioned the Eclipse Potion, didn’t you?”

            I did not answer.

            “Guys, he mentioned the Eclipse Potion.”

            “So what?” The blond haired guy that restrained my right side asked.

            “I mean, you guys have heard the story…”

            “Lizabeth, you don’t actually think this nutjob’s telling the truth, do you?” The African-American restraining my left nagged. “We all know the Eclipse Potion was nothing but a fable.”

            “No,” Collin chimed in suddenly, “I… I think he’s telling the truth. I mean, who’s Dr. Mikkelsen? He was never mentioned in the legend.”

            Everyone was quiet. I kept struggling.

            “Besides,” he continued, “did you see the way he looked at my phone? He’s never seen anything like this before. And, I mean, never mind the way he’s dressed… That suit is antique as shit.”

            “Worn as all hell, too,” Lizabeth mumbled.

            “Oliver—!” I cried.

            “Who’s Oliver?” Collin asked, but I refused to answer. After a moment of more resistance, he grabbed my shoulder and turned me to face him. Then, he slapped me across the face. “Get ahold of yourself, man!” He ordered.

            I looked at him, having been chastised by the smack. He showed me the flat, glowing rectangle again.

            “Do you know what this is?”

            I shook my head.

            “Take a guess.”

            “A clock?” I asked.

            “Sorta, yeah. But what is it as a whole?”

            I did not know the answer. “Forgive me, I…” I trailed off and shrugged.

            “It’s a cellphone. Ever heard of that?”

            Again, I shook my head.

            “Well then, what was new in your time?”

            “Uh… The sewing machine…”

            Collin gave Lizabeth – who looked more like (and probably was) his sibling – an exaggerated expression of pleasure at being correct.

            I turned around and looked at the two men behind me. One wore black glasses and a white and red plaid shirt. He too wore strange denim pants, but his were blue. The other man, the dark-skinned one, wore a bizarre article of clothing that possessed a hood and pockets on the front. It looked like a short cloak. His pants were denim as well, but black. Lizabeth wore purple and black plaid, a white undershirt of some sort. She also wore, strangely, tight dark blue pants. Their shoes were all very odd. They truly did not look as though they were from my time. Only then did it finally begin to set in that I really _was_ in the future.

            “How very queer your costumes are,” I mumbled.

            Collin scoffed a laugh and responded, “Buddy, just wait until you get outside.”


	8. Chapter 8

            The world had changed so much in my absence. Collin Locklear and his friends escorted me through Catshill at my request. People now had an entirely different fashion sense. I was stared at quite a bit, but I was dismissed when Locklear told them I was an actor of his. They did not seem to recognize me. The shops contained different kinds of books, and some even contained devices similar to Locklear’s “cellphone”, though much of them were bigger.

            “Damn,” Locklear said, admiring one of the larger cellphones, “Nice tablets. I didn’t think a town like this would carry this kind of stuff.”

            “We don’t have enough money to shop under your tech-fetish, Collin.” Locklear’s sister, Lizabeth, said. I had only just realized that she was pregnant, which made me rethink everything, since it was very obvious due to her ballooning belly. She had to be at least seven or eight months along. How had I missed it before? Who, exactly, was the father? I shrugged it off. It was none of my business.

            “Unfortunately.” Locklear muttered.

            They took me to Oliver’s home. It had been repainted. I was heading for the steps when Locklear grabbed my wrist and pulled me back.

            “Where are you going?” He asked.

            “That’s my friend’s house.” I said.

            “Not anymore, it isn’t.”

            I looked at the house. There were feminine curtains on the windows. He was right; Oliver Roarke was gone. I lowered my head in silent mourning. I never got to tell him my true feelings for him…

            “Hey,” Locklear said to his friends, “We don’t have enough for tech, but surely we have enough to give our buddy here a makeover.”

            I looked at them. “What do you mean?”

            “You can’t walk around in that.” Locklear purred, looking my tattered old suit up and down with his brown eyes. “You need some new clothes.”

            “Look, Collin,” said the blond one, who had been introduced to me as Kurtis Abel, “Are we going to start shooting or what?”

            “Yeah, yeah, just…” Collin paused and looked me over once more. “Wait a minute. Guys, lookit that. He’s about my size.”

            “So he is. But what does that matter?” asked Abel.

            “You guys think he could play a part in the movie? I mean, I have been introducing him around town as an actor.”

            My eyes widened as I stared at Locklear. I had never acted in anything, but there he was, trying to make me.

            “What do you say, huh?” Locklear asked me, patting my shoulder. “I get you some new clothes while they set up the equipment, and you help us with our film?”

            I looked at Locklear’s friends. The three of them shrugged, as if to say it was okay with them.

            “We did have an empty role to fill, I suppose…” The African one, Roger Jasper, muttered.

            “Um… O-okay then.”

            “Yeah?” Locklear.

            “Yes…”

            Locklear smacked me on the back. “Great! Alright, skedaddle, guys. I’ll take care of our friend.”

            I wandered with Locklear around the clothing store for about twenty minutes, feeling paranoid and thinking about what was happening. Just an hour ago, I had been trapped in my mansion. Yet, now, I was outside with some man I barely knew, shopping for clothes that were completely foreign to me. I still could not believe that 167 years had passed since I had last been outside. That made me 193… No, 194, I realized, as I remembered the date.

            “Oh…” I mumbled.

            “What is it?” Locklear asked.

            “It’s my birthday today…” I replied quietly.

            Locklear turned to face me with happy disbelief on his face. “Is it, really? What are the fuckin’ odds? Well, I guess I’ll be the first to say it then; Happy Birthday, bud.”

            “Thank you, but, if you don’t mind me asking… Why are you being so friendly towards me? We don’t even know each other, really...”

            “I know that you’re someone who could use a little bit of help fitting in. That’s all I need to know in order to want to help you.”

            I leaned in closer to him to whisper, “Do you even know the things I’ve done?”

            “I don’t care,” Locklear whispered back, “The past is in the past. I bet you’re a changed man by now, anyway.” With that, he stepped away from me to look through another rack of clothing. I could not help but admire the man’s courage; clearly, he was aware of my past. He simply did not care. His only desire was to help someone in need, even someone as sinful as myself. Honestly, I was touched.

            “I think purple suits you. What do you think?” Saying this, Locklear held up a lavender dress shirt.

            I shook my head. “I must admit that I am not sure about that…”

            “No, really,” He held it up against my chest, “It’s your size, it’s sort of antique-y but not glaringly old-fashioned, and the colour suits you in my opinion. Look at it in a mirror.” He handed me the garment and I reluctantly approached a mirror. I froze for a long moment, just staring at myself.

            My suit was trashed. I looked like a bloody vagrant for crying out loud, what with my tattered clothing, long, messy hair, and unkempt facial hair. With weak arms, I lift the shirt up to myself. Locklear was right; purple did appear to suit me.

* * *

 

            When Locklear and I returned to my mansion with new clothing for me, I bowed to him and thanked him.

            “What?” He asked.

            “Thank you kindly,” I repeated, “I will do whatever it takes to repay you for your kindness.”

            “Oh, no, no,” Locklear laughed, “No, man, no repayment necessary. Though I would appreciate it if you would take a look at our script and see if you like that role you said you’d do.”

            They gave me the script for a movie called _The Lethal Confections_. It was about a rich serial killer who kidnapped and poisoned people, trapping them in a manor after inviting them all for dinner. Supposedly, I was to play a victim that had been omitted from their edited script, whose lines had been given to Locklear instead. As I read, I looked around. I noticed all of the long electronic candles and strange devices with glass and metal, and was very confused by a lot of it.

            “What are those?” I said, gesturing to their equipment.

            “Those,” Jasper, who was setting the equipment up, answered, “are lights and camera.”

            “Where will the audience be? Where is our stage?”

            Jasper tried not to laugh at me. “Our audience is online. There won’t be anyone here with us; just us. I man the cameras around here. We record everything, and we post it on the internet.”

            “Online?” I questioned, “Internet?”

            Jasper finally cracked, beginning to laugh. “Oh, man, I’m sorry. The internet is like this… er… Lizabeth, help me out here!”

            Ms. Locklear, walking past, continued, “The internet is like this big digital place where you can see things made by others, and communicate with others, all around the world. It’s all at your fingertips, like that old instructional video said.” Jasper laughed at the last part of her explanation, to which she humorously nagged, “I’d like to see you find a better way to explain it to a Victorian, Roger.”

            “Why don’t you take your gloves off?”

            It took me a moment to realize that Jasper was once again speaking to me. “Pardon?”

            “Your gloves.”

            “What of them?”

            “I mean, you don’t see us wearing gloves, do you?” Which was odd. How could they wander about with their hands bare? What if they had accidental skin-to-skin contact? How awkward that would be.

            I shook my head, rubbing my hands together against my chest. “I may have changed my clothes to suit your odd fashion, but my gloves will stay.” We heard Ms. Locklear snort from the kitchen.

            “Whatever floats your boat. Say, what’s your name, anyway?”

            “Dr. Cheshire.”

            “Yeah, I know. But like, your name. Your first name.”

            “You all refer to each other with your given names, I’ve noticed. How very intimate. I do not yet feel comfortable with giving you my given name.”

            “Intimate?” The man asked as he adjusted a camera stand, which suddenly had not just one leg, but three. “How is that intimate? It’s very common.”

            I cringed. “Common? Intimacy is common now? Oh, boy. I really would prefer if you just referred to me as Cheshire. I would like to keep my given name to myself.”

            Jasper shrugged. “Alright then, Cheshire.”

            Suddenly, Locklear arrived, dressed differently. He clapped his hands together. “Alright,” He asked, “You guys ready to shoot?”


	9. Chapter 9

            The first day of filming with Locklear and his friends went well. I had been given a brush to deal with my unruly hair, but my scalp was so sensitive even after all these years, and it was too much of a hassle. Luckily, I was told it was not a problem. They said I had done a spectacular job of capturing the character’s essence. I am not sure of how I felt about it, but I think it had not been too pleasant for me. Still, I told them I enjoyed the experience just to avoid any potential conflict. As they began to pack up some of their things, not yet entirely finished but complete for the day, I asked a question that had been on my mind since they had first proposed allowing me to work under them.

            “What exactly do you call yourselves?” I inquired.

            Locklear flashed me a smile and held open his coat. The shirt he wore under had a silhouette of a wolf on it, and it was in an autumn-y palette. As such, it was not as much of a surprise to me when I noticed that the font above the wolf read “Autumnwolf Film Productions” in stylized calligraphy.

            “I see,” I added.

            “Pretty cool, huh? Maybe if you stay with us on this, we can get one made for you, as well.” Locklear flashed me what I was beginning to recognize as his signature grin.

            “Perhaps I would like that.”

            “Damn right, you would.”

            It was not very long before they offered to take me with them. They had reservations at a local hotel, where they were going to eat dinner. I had been intimidated by the idea of being around food at first, as I had not eaten in over one hundred years. I would likely become rather ravenous if I so much as smelt a morsel of food. Still, I accepted, wanting to be away from my mansion for as long as possible in order to avoid the memories.

            I was brought to a hotel very much similar to an old housing building from my time. In fact, it was the same building, just repainted. I had never been inside before then, so what the interior had originally looked like was entirely up to my imagination. Dinner was inexpensive, but still rather fine. I was not able to eat very much of whatever it was (I cannot remember), for my stomach had shrunk over the decades, but what I could eat was delicious. Having a drink of water, on the other hand, was much more refreshing. Now able to think a little bit more clearly, it occurred to me that Ms. Locklear’s pregnancy was not quite as far along as I originally thought; the white shirt she wore simply made her appear further along than she really was. She seemed more like she was around five months into her pregnancy. I was curious, still, why she was not on bed rest, and why she sauntered around as though she were not pregnant (never mind the fact that she dressed like a man), but I digress.

            Having an extra person was not in their original plan, but Locklear and his friends quickly worked out a solution.

            “I’ll sleep with Roger.” Ms. Locklear announced. I looked at them, and could not help but raise a brow.

            “Should you not sleep beside your brother as opposed to a friend?” I questioned her timidly.

            Ms. Locklear giggled. “No, I’m fine sleeping with my husband.”

            The word “husband” caught me horrifically off-guard. A white woman with a black man? It was very unusual and unexpected for me, since I had not up until that moment ever seen a bi-racial couple.  
            “Wait, he is your husband? So… The child…”

            “You noticed?” She asked with a smile as she showed off her wedding ring, which appeared quite expensive, albeit nothing like Camille’s. She said, “I’m proud to be Mrs. Jasper,” to which she received a peck on her cheek from Jasper.

            It was beginning to boggle my mind, as my idea of what to refer to her as had changed three times within the course of a single day. Quite honestly, I was gobsmacked.

* * *

 

            I could not sleep.

            In the bed beside mine, separated by a nightstand, was Locklear, who seemed to be fast asleep. Eventually, with a deep but quiet sigh, I stood up. The hotel room had its own bathroom, which I entered. There was an odd porcelain device inside; two of them, actually, one of which was under a small mirror placed at head-level. I gazed at myself in the mirror.

            I was very pale, half from Eclipse Potion, and half from the fact that my skin had not seen daylight in a rather long time. My eyes, though heavily bagged, were still a vibrant forest green colour. I removed my gloves and felt my beard.

            “This simply has to go,” I murmured to myself. Alas, I did not possess a razor, and there did not appear to be one provided to me, nor were there scissors that I could find. I took my gloves and a coat that Locklear had purchased for me as I quietly left the hotel room. There was something I needed to check.

            It was chilly outside, and very dark. By my prediction, it had to be around two in the morning, though I was not sure. Cautiously, I began to walk down the sidewalk in the direction of Oliver’s home, which I stood in front of for a long time. The house, which had originally been a dark roan red colour, had been painted yellow. There were lights along the street that were vaguely reminiscent of those that had been recently placed before my isolation, but much thinner and taller.

            Eventually, I shook my head. I would not find Oliver here. A deep sadness welled in my heart as I realized that my best bet might be to check the nearby cemetery once it was light out. I brushed my fingers across my lips and remembered Oliver’s kiss; it had felt so different from any kiss I had received from Camille. Though I had not noticed it until after the fact, his kiss had lit a fire in my heart. Sadly, I would never be able to let him know that. I had pushed him away. Had he died believing that I did not care for him? I begged for forgiveness, and reluctantly returned to the hotel.

* * *

 

            Soon, Autumnwolf finished their filming. They packed up their gear, and seemed ready to leave… That is, all but one of them seemed ready to leave. Locklear was very quiet. Soon, however, he asked me a question I had not been expecting.

            “Do you want to come with us?” He inquired.

            “Collin!” Mrs. Jasper shouted in a scolding manner. Locklear did not pay her any mind.

            “… To where?” I asked in reply.

            “America. Michigan, more specifically. Livonia.”

            I thought. I had nothing to lose, really. I would not strive on my own, not in Catshill.

            “I would not wish to be a burden…” I said.

            “Non-fuckin-sense, man! You wouldn’t be a burden. We’d love to have you!”

            “Collin,” Abel chimed in, “How would we even get him through the airport? He doesn’t have identification.”

            “Or a passport, for that matter.” Mr. Jasper added.

            Locklear held up his cellphone, which he shook somewhat. He was grinning again. “I’ve got Russ on fuckin’ speed-dial. He’ll help us.”

            “Really, Collin?” his sister asked, “You’re manipulating the government now?”

            “Hey, whatever needs doing.”

            I ignored their argument and announced, “It’s just that… There’s one more thing I would like to do here.”

            “Name it. Your wish is my command, buddy.”

            “I need to visit the cemetery.”

            Locklear and his friends followed me to the cemetery. As we walked, Locklear spoke to “Russ” on his cellphone. He sounded like he was pulling some major strings, and he spoke in a hushed manner of his friend being a “CIA Agent” or something along those lines. Meanwhile, I searched the graves. I found Camille’s at one point and barely resist the urge to spit on it.

            Oliver’s grave was rather isolated. It had not been very well cared for, either. I placed my hand on the top of his tombstone and lowered my head.

            In a low whisper, I whimpered, “I’m sorry, Oliver.”


	10. Chapter 10

            Getting into America was moderately simple, due to interest in me from the government of that country. Apparently, they had never before seen a case such as mine, which was not surprising to hear for me, since I could not imagine a context in which they would have. The agreement was that the government could question and watch over me for a while, which I agreed to. I needed to get out of Europe anyway, seeing as my chances of meeting as selflessly generous a group as Autumnwolf was slim.

            I was taken via flying carriage (introduced to me as an “airplane”) to Livonia, Michigan, which was apparently the hometown of Locklear and his friends. Waiting there for me was a special agent for the Central Intelligence Agency, who I had expected to be named Russell Southwell, but it was someone else. He questioned me, almost interrogated me really, and then I was (albeit reluctantly) allowed to return to Locklear.

            Over the course of the next two months, I was in two more of Autumnwolf’s films, and their audience, however small, began to have an interest in me. Locklear, however, kept my identity a secret, telling them instead that I was one of his shyer childhood friends. I was thankful for his lie, as it saved me trouble.

            By that point, I had been taught by Locklear and his group about modern inventions; how plumbing had become common, showers, toilets, sinks, refrigerators… Their bread was not as white as had been in my time, and Mrs. Jasper informed me that was because their bread did not contain Plaster of Paris. It was at that point that I felt relief in having always insisted that Camille buy cheaper bread, which was actually made of flour… hopefully.

            I cut my hair, leaving a chinstrap on my face, and keeping my hair down to my lower neck. Locklear was surprised at how dapper I looked when I did not have long hair.

            “You look so serious,” He told me.

            “I am quite so,” I replied.

            We were driving through Livonia in early May, at about seven in the morning. The sky was cloudy, but the weather was otherwise quite nice. I sat in the passenger seat, right beside Locklear, who was driving the van. In the back were Mrs. Jasper, Mr. Jasper, and Mr. Abel. Though I was silent, Locklear and his friends joked about in a light-hearted manner. The van, and most vehicles, would always be odd for me, I felt. I was held into my seat by a seatbelt, and I was still unsure as to how exactly Locklear’s foot pressing against a panel on the floor was propelling the vehicle forward, but I tried not to think about it.

            The streets were pretty empty, all things considered. Locklear lightly hit my arm, and I looked over at him. He was still half-focused on the road, but his face was turned toward me.

            “You alright?” He asked. “You’ve been pretty quiet.”

            “I am fine.” I told him.

            We stopped in front of a building, the sign of which read “Stevenson High School”. I followed Locklear’s group inside, where they took me to the gymnasium. Over the next two hours, I watched as they worked together and with other staff members, presumably teachers and whatnot, put together quite an interesting display. However, I was still unsure as to why exactly we were there, so I asked Locklear.

            “We’re doing an event here.” He told me. “Last month, we had people enter a draw. One lucky individual will be picked by us today as an actor in our next film.”

            “Or actress,” Mrs. Jasper, now approximately eight months along in her pregnancy but still acting entirely normal, chimed in.

            “Or actress.” Locklear corrected himself with a snicker and a comical roll of his brown eyes.

            It was not very soon afterwards when a gigantic crowd of people entered the gymnasium. I wanted to hide away, having never spoken in front of such a huge crowd, but I was assured by Locklear that I need not say a word.

            “Welcome, Stevenson High students!” Locklear announced charismatically into his microphone. The audience applauded, egging Locklear on. He rambled for a bit, explaining the point of this gathering, and the students remained quite lively due to his contagious good attitude. Even I may have been smiling somewhat. Eventually, Locklear held up an envelope.

            “Inside this envelope,” He said, “is the name of our winner!” The crowd nearly went ballistic in anticipation.  
            “Do you want me to open it?” Locklear teasingly asked. The audience shouted, prompting him to say, “I don’t know… Cheshire, you think I should open it?” He moved the microphone towards me, going back against his word. I heard some girls hysterically shout my name in the midst of the audience’s cheering.

            Hesitantly, I learned toward the microphone, and said, “Don’t keep them waiting, or they may stampede.” I got an explosion of laughter from the crowd, though I had honestly meant what I said.

            “Fair enough. Hold this, then, would you?” Locklear handed me the microphone, which I meekly held. Girls were still swooning over me, trying to get my attention, so I looked over in the general direction of the loudest shouts and gave a polite wave. I heard a girl squeal in delight. How funny it sounded.

            Finally, Locklear pulled out a paper, so I held the microphone toward him.

            “Wow,” He said, “That’s an interesting name. Apryl Knowlton!” He announced the name, holding up the paper, though I doubt that anyone could read it from the bleachers. The audience was almost louder than Locklear, so he practically had to shout into the microphone, “Is she here? Could Apryl Knowlton come over here?”

            After a brief moment, a girl with orange hair stood up. She nervously and awkwardly clambered down from the crowded bleachers, and then she approached us. Her peers applauded her appearance, and Locklear opened his arms.

            “There’s the lucky girl. How’re you feelin’, Apryl?”

            “Nervous,” Apryl laughed into the microphone.

            “Nervous? Don’t be nervous! You won!” Locklear beamed her a smile, and she giggled shyly.

            As everyone was leaving, a man came forward, and Locklear smiled at him.

            “Hey.”

            “Collin.” The man said, “It’s been a while.”

            “Damn right it has.” Locklear gave the man a hug, which made me raise a brow. “How’ve you been, dude?”

            “Fine, fine…” The man sounded like he was lying, but I said nothing, as it was not my place to speak.

            Locklear looked back at me. “Cheshire, this is a childhood friend of mine, Noël Ragsdale. He teaches here.”

            I waved at Ragsdale, and he returned the gesture before turning his attention to Mrs. Jasper.

            “How are you, Lizabeth?” He asked.

            “Never better, Noël.” She replied with a hand on her swollen belly and a big smile on her face.

            We left soon after that, without Ms. Knowlton.

            “Aren’t we taking the girl?” I asked as Locklear got into the van.

            “Nope. Not until the nineteenth.” He answered.

            I stepped into the van myself and put my seatbelt back on. “Why are we waiting?”

            Locklear looked at his wing mirror and put the van in reverse to get out of his parking spot. “Legal issues. She’s only 17, so we need permission to have her in our custody for a week, starting next Monday. Can’t take her out of classes yet, and all that jazz.” He responded.

            I told him I understood, and away we went.


	11. Chapter 11

            May 19th of 2014 was a day I will not soon forget. My actions that day were and are unacceptable, and not a day goes by where I do not deeply regret what I did to Locklear and his friends. Writing about it will be difficult, but I promised myself I would tell the whole truth, so I will try my best. This will not be the most pleasant chapter. I am sorry.

            We began the day at eleven in the morning by picking Ms. Apryl Knowlton up in front of her school. She wore a jean jacket over a pink pullover, and she had her backpack with her. This time, I was sitting in the back of the van, to the right of Mr. Abel, so that Ms. Knowlton could sit “shotgun”.

            “You ready to go?” Locklear asked after Ms. Knowlton stepped into the van.

            “Yes,” She answered with feigned confidence as she buckled her seatbelt.

            “You sure?” He pressed. “It’s a hell of a long drive. We’re taking the scenic route, really.”

            “How long?” She pondered aloud.

            Locklear glanced at his wristwatch, trying to think about the calculation in his head. “Um… Maybe, like, ten and half hours at best?”

            “Jesus,” Ms. Knowlton replied, “That’s fine, I guess.”

            “Good woman.” Locklear said with a smile.

            The drive was about as long as Locklear had promised. Our destination was an old abandoned hotel in Shafer, Michigan, which (similarly to my mansion in Catshill) Locklear wanted to use as a set, having been inspired by its isolating in the trees and its mysterious history. We drove the “scenic route”, leaving Michigan and soon driving through Eau Claire, close to Minneapolis. Why Locklear decided to take such a long route was beyond me, but it was purely by coincidence, I believe, that we were driving down State Highway 95 at the same time that Locklear’s friend was there.

            I could barely hear it over the heavy rainfall that was going on that evening, but I soon heard the sound of someone screaming behind the van. I did not need to say anything, for the stiffness of Locklear’s body and his knuckle-whitening grip on the steering wheel told me that he had heard it too. He quickly stopped the van, and Mrs. Jasper, sitting in front of me, having been jerked dramatically from her cellphone, began shouting at her brother.

            “What the hell, Collin?” She screeched. “Why are we stopping? At least give us some sort of warning!”

            “Shush!” Locklear snapped, though he then proceeded to jump out of the van into the rain.

            “Collin!” Mrs. Jasper called out before quietly mumbling to herself, “God, one of these days, that idiot’s gonna get us all killed…”

            I could not see or hear what was going on behind the van, but no more than five minutes later, Collin stepped back into the van. As he reluctantly did his seatbelt, he looked rather uncertain.

            “What was that all about?” Mrs. Jasper asked.

            “It… It was Russ.”

            Mrs. Jasper became confused as well. “Russell? Russell Southwell? What’s he doing all the way out here?”

            “I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me.” Locklear admit. “I asked him if he wanted a ride, but he refused. He told me not to go to the hotel.”

            “Why?” Abel questioned.

            “Again, he wouldn’t say.”

            We were all quiet until Locklear sighed.  
           “I mean, we’ve already come this far,” He told us, “so let’s just go there, huh? I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

            It was cold even inside the van, so we did not need to be talked into ignoring Southwell’s warning… I wish so much that we had listened to him.

* * *

 

            About twenty minutes later, we arrived at the hotel. Noticing that there was a lock on the gate, Locklear slammed on the accelerator. The van ploughed through the gate with a loud metal clang, and the van rocked somewhat.

            “Woo!” Locklear emit a loud cheer.

            “Fuck, man!” Mr. Jasper groaned, “This is a fuckin’ rental van! Don’t damage it!”

            “It’s fine, Roger! A little gate-breaking won’t hurt shit!” Locklear casually assured him.

            “Yeah, except for the hood,” Mr. Jasper grumbled.

            Soon, Locklear pulled up in front of the old hotel. “Shit,” he said, “the door’s boarded up. Kurt, do we have a crowbar?”

            “You won’t let us leave without it.” Abel responded.

            “Give it to me.”

            Locklear took the crowbar, handed to him by Mr. Jasper, who had been passed it by Abel. He then, still not caring about the rain, stepped out of the van and headed for the front door of the hotel.

            “Shit, I can’t let him do that alone. Stay here.” Abel stepped out as well and rushed to go help Locklear, leaving me with Ms. Knowlton and Mr. and Mrs. Jasper.

            “So, Apryl,” Mr. Jasper began, “Have you seen any of our films before?”

            “Yeah, I’ve seen them all.” She answered proudly. “I’m a really big fan. My favourite was probably _The Humble Guest_.”

            “Really? I had a lot of fun filming for that one.” Mrs. Jasper chimed in. “What about you, Cheshire?”

            “Yes, I quite enjoyed that one. Locklear makes a very convincing killer.” I answered honestly. In truth, Locklear’s behaviour had been so convincing during filming for that movie in particular, that I had worried for a bit that he had not been acting. The adrenaline rush was so enchanting. I could honestly say that, although acting was not quite my niche, I really did like _The Humble Guest_.

            “Doesn’t he?” Mrs. Jasper replied, “God, I loved the power struggle between his two identities. I know he had a shitload of fun with it, too. That was probably his favourite character to play so far.”

            It was not long before Locklear and Abel had the door open, and we entered the hotel quickly, trying not to get drenched. The lobby of the hotel was very aged, but relatively untouched, it seemed, by the hands of time. Stepping into the building gave me an odd sensation that, at the time, I decided to ignore. We soon discovered that plumbing was still functional inside the hotel.

            “I say we crash here for the night,” Locklear suggested, “since I’m sure I speak for a lot of us when I say I’m fuckin’ exhausted.”

            Everyone agreed, so I reluctantly gave in as well, ignoring the headache that had developed.

            “I’m going to take a bath, then.” Mrs. Jasper said, stretching. “I could really use some relaxation.”

            Everyone went their separate ways, to different rooms in the hotel, while Locklear and I remained on the first floor for a while.

            “So… Why here?” I asked him in the dining room as he skimmed through the files on one of his digital cameras.

            “Why not here? It’s really old fashioned and I think it’d make a nice set.”

            I shook my head, smiling somewhat. “I know you by now, Locklear. You know something about this place. Something piqued your interest. Now, what is it?”

            Locklear giggled. “It’s silly. Just an old rumour, y’know.”

            “I don’t. I’m still not very caught up with the times.”

            The man looked at me with a small smirk. “Apparently this place was used as some sort of lab, or some shit. For illegal experiments: on _humans_. Some crazy son of a bitch was playing god with chemicals.”

            I frowned, and Locklear seemed to remember my past.

            “Err, I mean… Wow, this is awkward. Sorry.”

            I shrugged it off. “No, it’s fine.”

            “I just meant that this guy was seriously fucked in the head, apparently. Perception issues and bipolar disorder up the wazoo.”

            My eyes opened, staring at nothing in silent recognition, as Locklear’s words made me think of Oliver. I shook this idea off as well; there was no way he was referring to Oliver. Oliver had died, and even if he hadn’t, he did not know anything about chemicals.

            “You alright?” Locklear asked suddenly, jarring me somewhat.

            “Yes.” I spoke quickly. “Yes, I’m just fine.”

            “If you say so…” Locklear looked down at his camera and continued skipping through clips. I stood there awkwardly for a long moment, unsure of whether or not I should say anything about my increasingly disorienting headache.

            “You should go upstairs and get some rest.” My friend said to me without even looking at me, “You look kind of worn out.”

            I placed a hand on my head and nodded. “Yes, I… I suppose I should.”

            Reluctantly, I headed upstairs to the second floor. I passed by a rather humid room, which I determined to be the bathroom that Mrs. Jasper was bathing in due to the heat and the fact that I could hear her quietly humming some modern pop song to herself… or perhaps to her unborn child. Possibly both, for all I knew. I decided to take a room at the end of the hall. All of the doors in the building were unlocked, thankfully, and could be locked manually from the inside. However, the doors looked flimsy enough to kick through with ease, which I found myself making a small mental note of.

            My headache was gradually growing unbearable. I wobbled on my feet, stumbled, and had to rest my weight on a drawer in the room. I swore I felt my nose running, so I pressed my gloved left hand to my upper lip and drew it back. What I found was that my white gloves were now stained with a patch of light blue fluid. There was a mirror on the wall, so I quickly looked into it; my nose was bleeding Eclipse Potion…!

            “What in the world…?” My supposed hallucination of light blue blood appeared to have been not so much a hallucination all of the sudden. My eyes blurred over, and I looked down, blinking rapidly. My eyes were leaking. I began to cough wetly. What the bloody hell was happening to me? I looked up into the mirror once more. To my astonishment, my eyes, sclera and all, were light blue! I had Eclipse Potion running down my cheeks from my eyes, out from my nose, and dribbling out of the corners of my mouth. I was so pale. My vision had a faint blue tinge to it. My heart was pounding erratically, though I recall my breathing becoming shallower.

            I cannot say why I did what I did next. Most of it is a blur in my mind. Though I do not remember where I found it, I produced a knife from somewhere, and I stood in front of the door to the bathroom. Mrs. Jasper was still inside, still bathing from the sound of it. I knocked, three hard, jarring strikes against the wood.

            “Roger?” I heard her giggle. “Roger, is that you? The door’s open, you ass.”

            I took my chances and stepped into the bathroom. I closed and quietly locked the door behind me. Mrs. Jasper was sitting in the bathtub. Her arm lay over her eyes, which she was resting. She had no idea that I was not her husband, and as such, apparently found no reason to open her eyes.

            “Something happen? Or did you just want to see me?” She snickered.

            I stepped closer and stared at her stomach. I felt a sudden urge to get that child out of her stomach.

            “Roger, c’mon, talk to me, hee hee… It’s creepy if you don’t.”

            I knelt beside the tub, and she opened her eyes. When she finally realized what she was looking at, her playful expression became one of stunned terror. I pressed my index finger to my lips and quietly shushed her before I used that hand to cover her mouth. She screamed and fought me, but it was useless; she was not nearly as strong as I, and her screams were almost entirely smothered by my palm. With my other hand, I plunged the knife into her stomach. Her screams, still muffled, became higher in agony, with which her face twisted. The procedure was not nearly as clean as I would have liked, but I kept on. With the knife still in my hand, I yanked out a bloody baby that was too tiny and not well developed. Mrs. Jasper cried behind my hand in grief and pain.

            “Aww,” I found myself snarling, “The child has perished. I am afraid that you are grieved, miss.”

            She just would not stop screaming. I wanted her to stop. So I strangled her… with her own child. The umbilical cord, to be more precise. Her brutal death did not affect me at the time. I was no longer thinking.

            Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Jasper had become concerned since his wife had not joined him in their room. I watched him grieve. When he saw me, covered in his wife’s blood and still inhuman in my face, he began yelling at me.

            “You… Wha-what have you done?!” He screamed, “Are you fucking insane?! YOU FUCKING MONSTER!!”

            He tried to strike me, but I was unstoppable. After a brief scuffle, I got him in my arms and began beating his head against the edge of the bathtub. I did not stop until his skull had cracked open in my hands: that was how hard and how long I kept at it.

            Mr. Abel heard the commotion and came running. I spent five minutes chasing him around upstairs before I gut him like a fish.

            I hid after that. Locklear was hysterical. I intended to kill him as well, but then I heard him screaming at someone. The screams of Ms. Knowlton were what really piqued my interest, as I had entirely forgotten about her. For some reason, it seemed that Locklear was treating her as though she had commit my terrible crimes.

            I remained out of sight upstairs until I heard two new voices downstairs. There was a lot of screaming. I snapped out of my psychosis after I heard a few gunshots. From the sounds of it, Locklear had a gun. Where did he get a gun?

            Locklear and the loud, Mexican-sounding man’s voices faded off. It sounded as though they had rushed outside. Ms. Knowlton’s screams followed them. I looked at myself in guilt and shame; I was covered in blood. This would simply not do…

            Though half of me begged to admit to my crimes, the other half of me refused. That was the half I listened to, and so I changed my clothes, hiding my bloody garments in a place that I figured no one would ever think to check. My head still hurt, but I shook it off and washed the Eclipse Potion off of my pale face.

            Reluctantly, I went downstairs. There was a man lying on the ground in front of the door. He was hurt. I knelt beside him; I did not recognize him. He had been shot. Had Locklear shot him?

            I shook my head. What the hell had happened? Within the course of two hours, what was supposed to be a harmless attempt at getting a free movie set had turned into an absolute nightmare. Three people were dead, maybe more going off of the commotion I had heard from downstairs.

            The man on the floor moaned in pain. Though I was severely uncertain about my actions, I did my best to keep him alive. I wanted to cry. I was a monster, just as Mr. Jasper had said. Inhuman. Cruel. Insane.

            A Mexican man, a plainclothes police officer from the looks of it, soon entered. He held Locklear, who was barely conscious. He had been shot in the face. His survival was a miracle. Following behind him, quite obviously in shock, was Ms. Knowlton.

            “Who are you?” The police officer asked me.

            “Dr. Cheshire,” I answered shakily.

            Ms. Knowlton collapsed beside the boy I was helping and began to cry. “Russell…” She sobbed. It dawned on me that the boy must have been Russell Southwell.

            “Do you know what happened here?”

            I hesitated for just a second. “I don’t know… I-I was upstairs, resting. My God, I… It’s terrible up there… Just terrible.”

            I will never forgive myself.


	12. Chapter 12

            A huge court case followed in what the press dubbed “The Autumnwolf Incident”. I had successfully, albeit unwittingly, framed Locklear for committing my crimes. Seeing how far the once-great man had fallen because of what I had done simply broke my weak little heart. I could not let him suffer the consequences of my actions. At the same time, however, I could not reveal myself as the true culprit. I had to reveal the truth, but not the whole truth.

            I was called upon as a witness in the trial where I first began to carefully plant seeds that suggested his innocence. I may have lied a little, but neither Ms. Knowlton nor Locklear himself pointed it out, as it would be detrimental for them to go against my words. Agent Southwell soon stepped onto the witness’ stand, having been treated for his gunshot wound. He answered whatever questions he could, which were really rather limited, since he had only been inside the hotel for a short period of the time that Locklear had held Ms. Knowlton at gunpoint before he had been shot. There is not a need for me to specify whether the end of the sentence before this one is referencing Southwell or Locklear, since either association is correct.

            The media began to gain an interest in me, which almost seemed to double after I riskily bleached a strip of my bangs. I felt the need to change my appearance. I began to wear baggy clothes and big coats. I discovered arm warmers, and was fascinated. Besides the eccentrically “unfashionable yet somehow badass” style I adopted, I had pretty much come out of nowhere, only to suddenly become the key witness in a horrifying murder case. If they had ever discovered my true role in the events that transpired at that hotel on May 19th, I am sure that the case would have become even more popular with the press.

            The case of the Autumnwolf Incident went on until the middle of 2015 before a verdict was finally announced. Collin Locklear was declared innocent, and was released. To my knowledge, he fled to Texas, though I never heard from him again. The government, still interested in me, gave me residence in Michigan. I was unable to live in Livonia, however, and had to move to Southfield, a city or two over. That was when the rookies and freelance journalists came knocking.

            It turned out that the media had begun to portray me as a clairvoyant of sorts, since the things I pointed out in Locklear’s defence were logical, but often dismissed as background information. I could not understand that; certain things were just obvious to me. For example, whose blood was on the wall? Where did the suspect go? Certain questions had answers that could be easily obtained simply by judging a persons’ character and thinking about the most likely way that things occurred. Regardless, I played along for a little while. At one point that year, I was interviewed over the phone by a newspaper in bloody Cheltenham! I had become a topic of worldwide discussion, apparently, though no one had yet discovered my true past.

            It dawned on me, after a while of tackling amateurish cases given to me by young lads and lasses with nothing better to do than waste their parents’ money, that I wanted to work in medicine. It did not make very much sense to me for me to call myself a doctor but not actually work as one. I questioned the government, who announced that it was possible, but that it would take some time, as they would need to make identification for me, which turned out to be a complicated process filled with, dare I say, nothing but bullshit for someone like me, who lacked a birth certificate, modern or otherwise.

            On January 8th of 2016, I was on one of my by-then-typical walks around Southfield, on my way back to my home, when I realized someone was following me. It was a man: that much I could tell without looking back. He wore some sort of dress shoes; probably wingtips, I thought, though I could not entirely explain what brought me to that conclusion, so I suppressed it. I attempted to deter him or at least prove to myself that he was not tailing me, but no matter the odd turn I made, he stayed a few feet behind me. He was studying me, I soon realized. He was watching me to see my personality from my gait and the way I held myself, which was unfair since he gave me no opportunity to return the gesture. Or, I pondered, maybe he was just really shy. I found the latter idea to be silly, so I dismissed it as well.

            “’Scuse me,” Once we had returned to a densely-trafficked street, the man behind me finally spoke, revealing what sounded like a Texan accent, “Are you Dr. Cheshire?”

            I stopped walking and could not help but roll my eyes before I turned my head ever so slightly in his direction.  
           “Yes.” I answered bluntly.

            I heard the man step closer as he began to say, “Dr. Cheshire, I’m Detective Elliot Mortensen, and I have an—”

            Great. Another useless so-called “detective” who needed my assistance. I whirled around on my feet, taking my first look at Detective Mortensen; he was about two-inches taller than I, and had light blond hair that made me think of the typical artistic portrayal of male angels. He looked to be around his mid-40s, though something suggested he was a tad older (probably the hard-nosed look in his eyes that suggested he did not trust anybody). His coat was what really caught my eyes; he wore a balmacaan that was dark brown but for the upper body and upper-arm segments, which were cinnamon-coloured. The coat was sewn poorly: probably by him. He smelt faintly of cigarettes. I quickly noticed that he was in fact wearing wingtip shoes. Beige suede. Quite nice. Not well maintained, but nice nevertheless.

            “Don’t call it an offer.” I said accusingly, cutting the detective off. “You’ve come to ask me to help you track someone down, haven’t you? There’s nothing in it for me, so it is _not_ an offer.” I could not explain why I felt so hostile, but I could not help but fidget as Detective Mortensen’s stare rest on my face. He looked rather solemn.

            “How did you…?” He began in a subtle confusion before he shook it off and continued, “Oh, I see. I take it you’ve already spoken with Mrs. Bellamy?”

            I raised a brow at the man. “No, I haven’t, and I’m afraid I do not know who it is that you are speaking of.”

            The confusion in Detective Mortensen’s tone returned as he asked, “Then how did you know what I needed?” The way he asked the question, which such thick and unnecessary suspicion, made it obvious to me that he had been manipulated before, likely by someone he was close to. He was not one to like lies, hence he was probably more honest than a lot of the people I had met by that point. That was why I decided not to ignore his question.

            “You're wearing the same attire that a stereotypical detective might wear,” I answered him honestly, “and the grim look on your face spells out a need for revenge. I'm good at finding people, and I'm told I'm remarkably good at solving puzzles and riddles that troubled people, _criminals_ , make.” I paused for a second to give the detective a cocky smirk. Perhaps the attention and constant ego-stroking by the press had made me arrogant. “You've heard, and you want me.”

            Detective Mortensen said nothing. He still looked suspicious, but it seemed he was speechless. Obviously, I was bang on. I am still unsure as to why I decided to help him, though.

            “Now then. Tell me all you can about who I am to help you find, and I'll tell you exactly where he is at this moment.” I concluded with confidence. Who could blame me for acting conceited? A bloody detective, a professional in his field, was coming to me for help. I had to be damn good for that to happen.

            “That’s impossible,” was not the response I expected, I’ll admit, especially not in a bitter and sceptical tone. However, that was the exact response Detective Mortensen gave me. If he did not believe in me, I wondered, then why on Earth had he come to find me?

            “Do you have a car?” I questioned.

            “A rental, yeah.” The man replied.

            “Good. Humour me, and we'll find out if it's so ‘impossible’, hmm?” I felt as though I had something to prove by showing my skills off to an actual detective.

            Detective Mortensen rolled his eyes, but at the same time, seemed somewhat flustered. “His... His name is Noël Ragsdale. He used to be a high school teacher in Michigan.”

            I hid the shock from my facial expression, though I recognized the name. I had met Mr. Ragsdale before… He was a childhood friend of Locklear’s, I recalled. I felt almost protective of him for that reason, but I kept my knowledge of him secret. “What grade, and what city?” I probed.

            “Uh... Grade, uh... t-ten, I think. The city is close to this one, it's... Livonia?” Detective Mortensen scratched the back of his head nervously. He was having trouble making eye contact with me, though he kept trying to take in the details of my face with his eyes. I ignored his strange behaviour.

            “Ah, why that's only a city or two over.” I announced as if I had only just figured that out. “That's useful.”

            The detective attempted to shake off whatever was making him uncomfortable, and while looking off to the side, said in a serious tone, “He got fired and went to the UK, and next thing we know, his supposed online girlfriend's dead and he's gone.”

            “What date?” I asked.

            Detective Mortensen’s head whipped around to look at me, and his hair bounced softly back into place, parted so the majority of his bangs fell, curved somewhat, over his left-hand eyebrow. “What?”

            “What date?” I repeated, somewhat frustrated. “The girl’s death date?”

            Mortensen lowered his head, staring down at his toes. He fidgeted somewhat. “Oh, uh… It…” He stammered.

            I sighed, recognizing a problem. “Would you prefer if I cover my face?”

            He raised his head somewhat at the question. “What are you talking about?”

            I shrugged, adding, “You seem to be distracted. Do I resemble or remind you of someone dear to you?”

            “N—...” The detective quickly shook his head. His nervousness revealed that I was spot on once again in my assumption. “No. No, that's—that's not it.”

            “Denial isn't healthy, sir.” I told him. “Your heart clearly skipped a beat when our eyes met.” My eyes trailed down his left arm, and I found a gold band to be wrapped around his ring finger. He had been married, I realized, but his attire suggested that he was now either divorced or widowed. “Hmm, that wedding band... Do I have your wife's eyes, sir?”

            Suddenly, he looked at me with anger in his dark brown eyes, standing up straight and unconsciously sticking his chest out a bit to look intimidating. “ _Don’t_ bring up my wife.” He warned.

            Probably widowed, then.

            “Alright, reaction noted.” I slid myself back just a bit. His intimidation tactic was working on me, I had to give him that. “Back to the matter at hand, then. Tell me the girl's death date.”

            “We found her around August 1st of 2014.” He said, his anger subsiding. He returned to a slight slouch, but I did not move closer.

            August of 2014? How hard could it have been to find Mr. Ragsdale? This man had really been on the case for over a year? I could only wonder why Ragsdale would have killed his girlfriend. I knew nothing of her, so I could not say much in his defence,  
           “So he fled from the scene of the crime.” I mused, “To where?”

            “To Monahans, Texas.” Mortensen gave the smallest shrug that told me he had no idea why Ragsdale picked such a location to flee to. Honestly, I was not entirely sure either, but I continued to muse, wanting to seem better than I was at understanding people.

            “Hmm, a nearly rural area of Texas. I see his reasoning.”

            “Our paths crossed again on November 19th of 2015,” Mortensen paused, and I noticed for a short moment the sad look in his eyes before he got back on track, continuing, “And I lost track of him after that.”

            “I see.” I said, though that was only half true.

            “So, then. Where is he now, if you're so clever?” If it was not already clear that Detective Mortensen did not believe that I was clairvoyant, I would have been somewhat insulted by his insulting tone.

            “Well, what was he like during your last chance encounter?” I questioned, even though I already had a pretty good idea of where Ragsdale was likely to be. I kind of just wanted to make the detective run in circles a bit, as mean as it probably was.

            “Panicked, I guess.” The sad look in Mortensen’s eyes returned before he finally revealed why it kept returning in the first place. “He'd just shot my partner.”

            I lowered my eyes. That explained the vengeful expression he had worn at first… I was no longer entirely sure where to stand on the conflict: if Ragsdale was involved, then I had to protect him, but…  
            “Are they…?” I kept the question open. Mortensen only responded by lowering his head, and I understood that Ragsdale had killed his partner. “I’m sorry.”

            Detective Mortensen shrugged and raised his head again. He tried to look determined and serious once more, but his poker face was quite weak, and I could still see his sorrow. He had clearly lost a lot in his life. Perhaps that was something we had in common, and why I decided to do what I did.

            “Alright then, I know exactly where to find him.” I announced with false pride.

            “Oh, really now?” The detective sardonically replied. “Where is he, then?”

            “He’s at home right now.”

            I watched a roller coaster of emotions display itself across Mortensen’s face, starting with amusement and ending in vivid disappointment. “Pardon me?” He asked in a flat voice.

            “He's at home, trying to return to his normal life: to cope.” I told him.

            “But that's stupid.” He complained, “That's _the_ most obvious place to hide.”

            I shrugged once again. “He fooled _you_ , didn't he? Not like he cares either way. Seeing you again would likely rip him apart.”

            “Stop being ridiculous. Will you help me or not?” The detective was beginning to grow impatient. However, I had long since finished toying with him, though he still seemed to believe that I was kidding.

            “ _Humour_ me.” I insisted, “Take me to his house. You've clearly got time enough to spare. If he's there, you won't need my help from that point on.”

            Detective Mortensen looked me over for a long moment, trying to read me. He must have found me trustworthy, for he rolled his eyes and emit a low, stubborn snarl. “Fine. But when you're wrong, I'm going to be very displeased with you.”

            Feeling like a real cock of the walk, I smirked and announced with pride: “You're about to learn, Mr. Mortensen, that I – Dr. Cheshire – am _never_ wrong.”


	13. Chapter 13

            Sitting in the passenger seat of Detective Mortensen’s car, I was quietly gazing out of the window as he drove. Cars in general were still an enigma to me, but I did rather admire the sight of buildings and snowy streets passing us by at high speeds. Traffic was poor, and I heard Mortensen huff a lot. I could tell the slowness was making him frustrated, but he managed to keep his composure. It had been early in the evening when I first met the detective, but by the time we were out of Southfield, the sun was beginning to set.

            Eventually, I brought my attention to Mortensen. I could tell that he noticed that I had begun to stare, since he looked at me for a second out of the corner of his eye, but he never turned his head and quickly put his full focus on the road in front of him. He almost appeared nervous, what with the shy way he pretended to ignore me.

            Detective Mortensen had an interesting nose, though I am not entirely sure why I found it to be so. It was very straight. Where the tip of most people’s nose had a subtle bump to it, I could notice no such thing on Mortensen’s. The bridge of his nose had a somewhat concave shape to it. The space between his nose and upper lip was slightly longer than average, but not obviously so. I figured it was due to the thinness of his lips, the lower of which was thicker than the other (but not by very much). He had light, short stubble that carried down to just above his larynx. The heavy bags under his eyes suggested he was not the kind of man to get much sleep (given that he was a detective, this was not a surprising discovery), and the way his face fell naturally seemed to be sort of aggressive. I was not sure how he managed it, but while his face spelled out “kindest man in the world”, his body language and general facial expression said “stay away from me or I will beat the shit out of you”.

            His light blond hair, which looked rather thick, was superficially well-maintained. If one ignored the fact that he had obviously combed the top layer, it was apparent that the rest of it was somewhat tangled and more or less allowed to fall wherever it pleased. Its length did not go far past the nape of his neck, but it curled upward and outward at the tips to give the illusion of it being ever so slightly shorter than it really was.

            I was snapped out of my staring when Detective Mortensen let out an uneasy sigh. I had forgotten that he was aware of my gaze, and I was unsure of just how long I’d been staring, so I quickly turned my head and looked out onto the road in front of us. I had to admit, Detective Mortensen was handsome, but he looked as though he was done opening up for others in any way. The fact that he had even come to me for help was surprising enough, judging what his body language told me. He had probably been determined to find Ragsdale on his own, but had been instructed to find me against his will by someone more stubborn than him.

            The tension in the air as we drove quietly was beginning to grow unbearable, so I cleared my throat. Detective Mortensen ignored the cue, still pretending to ignore me.

            “So,” I reluctantly began, “Where are you from?”

            “France,” He answered quietly. His answer confused me for a second due to his Texan (or maybe it was Idahoan…?) accent, but I shook my doubt away.

            “Really? What brought you to America, then?”

            “This case,” Again, his answer was meek and quiet. He now appeared to be the one intimidated by me.

            A thick silence began to fill the air once more. Sensing this, Mortensen glanced in my direction (although not directly at me, mind you) and reached for the car’s radio.  
            “You don’t mind, do you?”

            “If?”

            “If I turn on the radio.”

            I shook my head at the same time that I shrugged, and Mortensen turned on the radio. It was tuned to some sort of modern station that was playing relevant singles.  
            “You can change the station if you don’t like it.” Mortensen told me. He then cleared his throat and muttered, adding, “Or turn it off. I don’t care either way.”

            I did not actually know how to change the station, but I did not mention that, for I kind of enjoyed hearing popular music.

* * *

 

            It was dark outside by the time that we finally got to Livonia. I was beginning to feel somewhat tired, and could not suppress a yawn. I recognized some of the streets at first, but then we started driving down residential streets, led by the GPS on the dashboard.

            “Fuck,” Mortensen said all of the sudden, staring at the GPS.

            Jolted from my half-sleep, I asked, “What is it?”

            “I took a wrong fuckin’ turn somehow. Just my fuckin’ luck. I’ve always been such a goddamned klutz…”

            The fact that he hadn’t sworn at all, but began cursing to high heavens as soon as he had made a mistake showed me that Mortensen was probably some sort of perfectionist. He was more stubborn than I thought, it seemed, to the point where he became very frustrated if he made a mistake. I had the haunting suspicion that if I had been the one driving, he would not have felt so annoyed.

            “That’s alright.” I assured him. He grumbled something under his breath, but the look in his eyes suggested to me that he appreciated my kindness.

            We continued to drive for a little bit, getting back on the right track. I tried to zone out again, but Mortensen suddenly hit my arm.

            “What?” I asked.

            The detective said nothing, only staring forward with wide-eyes. He pointed forward and somewhat up, then asked, “Am I seeing this right?”

            I looked outside. There was smoke in the sky, a whole lot of it, as if a building was on fire.

            “My lord.” I said, “At least that’s not Ragsdale’s house.”

            “But…” Mortensen looked at me, his brows furrowed. “But I think it is… That’s the side of the street his house is on, and… Fuck, it is!”

            When we came to a four-way intersection, since the roads were clear, Mortensen jerked the steering wheel, driving the wrong way on a one-way street. He sped up a bit, causing me to grab the sides of my seat.

            “Is this legal?” I asked.

            “What are they gonna do?” Mortensen replied in a sarcastic drone, “Arrest me?”

            The detective pulled the car to a stop in front of the burning house. Standing in the yard outside were a man and a young woman, the latter of which turned to look at the car. Mortensen hastily undid his seatbelt and jumped out of the car, slamming the door behind himself. I scurried to follow him, carefully making sure I wouldn’t get run over as soon as I stepped out of the car.

            “It’s you…” I heard Ragsdale’s voice snarl at Detective Mortensen. I hurried around the car to stand beside the detective, who stood his ground. Ragsdale glanced at me, but I do not think he recognized me.

            “Give it up, Ragsdale!” Mortensen shouted. “This is the end of the line for you!”

            The young woman, who appeared to be of Filipino descent, turned to Ragsdale. “What is he talking about, Mr. Ragsdale?” The formal words reminded me of my time, but I realized it was because she was probably a student of his.

            “Stay quiet and let me handle this, Julie.” He snapped at her, causing her to flinch. His face then softened, as though he had been chastised somewhat by her frightful reaction.

            “Should I get out my gun?” It took me a second to realize that Mortensen’s lowly-spoken question had been directed at me.

            “No,” I replied, equally low, “Not yet, Mr. Mortensen.”

            Ragsdale stepped toward us, madness clear in his green eyes. He looked terrible, as if he had been through hell and back, what with the deeply shaded rings under his eyes, his unkempt stubble, and messy black hair. “Stay back!” He shouted, “If _I_ can't have them, then _nobody_ can! Do you understand that? I won’t let you take them from me!!”

            My mind raced to determine what Ragsdale thought Mortensen and I were there for. Then I remembered Mortensen’s words: “used to be a high school teacher” and “he got fired”. It became obvious to me, what was going on.

            Ragsdale had kidnapped his former students. I looked at the burning house. Oh, my God. _They were in the house, weren’t they?_

            “What…?” Mortensen asked quietly.

            I did not know if the question was for me or not, but I responded anyway. “Watch.”

            The lone student, Julie, shakily took a step back, further from Ragsdale and closer to myself and Mortensen, on weak legs. “What do you mean...?” She asked, frightened by her former teacher. “You mean, you... _You_ kidnapped them...?”

            Ragsdale looked at the girl with a guilty expression. He looked almost like he would cry if she rejected him. “Julie... Please,” He begged, “you don't understand.”

            Unable to contain myself anymore, I took a step forward. “Let the students go, Ragsdale.”

            Ragsdale’s eyes moved to me, and his sorrowful expression became one of violent hatred and delusion. “ _No!_ ” He snapped. “Look, there's no way you could ever possibly understand... but I _need_ them!”

            I shook my head. “If you keep this up, they're going to die.” I told him. “In fact, smoke inhalation has likely already caused permanent damage. You do _realize_ that, don't you?”

            The tan man, looking rather pale all of the sudden, turned to take in the sight of the fiery blaze that had been his home. In a timid, uneasy voice, he said, “Oh God... Th-they're in the basement...!”

            I held my hands out toward him. “Come here,” I said, prompting him to turn and see my open arms waiting for him. His reaction was not quite the one I had been going for, but not entirely unpredicted.

            “NO! If you wanna take me away from them, you're going to have to do it BY FORCE!” He screamed. He looked ready to lunge forward, but he stopped when Mortensen whipped out his gun, aiming it at him.

            “Don’t fucking move.” The detective warned.

            “They’re mine…” Ragsdale laughed, “They’re _mine!_ ”

            “If you move, I will shoot you.” Mortensen sidled a little bit closer, presumably to go in for the arrest. “In fact, I should shoot you right here. I could.”

            “You can’t stop me now.” Ragsdale.

            Julie suddenly screamed, prompting both Mortensen and I to whip around and face her. Ragsdale took that moment to bolt toward his house. Mortensen re-aimed, following Ragsdale with his gun. Murder was written in the detective’s eyes, and I felt as though time was moving in slow motion.

            Detective Mortensen was going to kill Ragsdale. I could feel it in my bones. Someone was about to die.  
            “Mortensen!” I shouted as I jumped in front of him, allowing Ragsdale to escape into his blazing house.

            Mortensen, obviously having been forced to hold his fire (lest he shoot me), snarled in frustration. “Dammit! What'd you get in the way for? I was going to stop him!”

            “You were going to _kill_ him with that shot, not stop him!” My scolding words prompted Mortensen to think about what he was planning, and he frowned culpably. We both quickly turned our attention to the house, however, after Ragsdale’s scream filled the air.

            “My God…” I gasped. Before even I knew it, I was running toward the hellish heat.

            “Cheshire!” Mortensen called out after me, but I was deaf to him.

            I dashed up the porch steps, running then through the front door. If I had thought the heat before had been intense, I was dead wrong; it was so hot inside that house, hot enough to make me instantly regret not having removed my coat before running in. The coat, have I mentioned, was flammable and had a long, dangling belt that I never did up? Yes, I regret that coat in that moment.

            I tried to look around, but the smoke was making my eyes water, and I was beginning to cough. However, I still managed to find Ragsdale. I reached out and touched him, and he was so startled that he tried to jump back, only to trip on a fallen piece of ceiling. Next thing I knew, he was half on fire before my silently horrified stare. That image will never leave my head. I tried to help him up without catching fire myself, which was difficult since I was wearing cotton gloves as well, but he very quickly got up somehow on his own accord and dashed outside, with me following close behind. As I was following him down the porch stairs, I somehow slipped, falling over into the snow. Ragsdale kept screaming.

            “Mr. Ragsdale!!” I heard Julie scream in terror. I could hear Mortensen running to my aid, and at the same time, the sound of Julie attempting to assist Ragsdale. It sounded as though she had successfully extinguished him using the snow on the yard.

            “Cheshire, are you alright?” Mortensen asked. I looked up at him; he was knelt beside me, looking very concerned for my wellbeing. His eyes were like windows in that moment, his doors ajar for me just a bit to reveal that if I had been right about one thing, it was that Detective Mortensen was helplessly kind even though he probably wanted to be seen as heartless.

            “I’m fine.” I told him. He then extended his hand to me to help me up, and I could not stop my eyes from widening as I thought of Oliver, and how he insisted on helping me stand on the day I finally realized how deeply I loved him. I blinked, and Mortensen was Oliver. I was back in Catshill. “ _Just give me your hand,_ ” He said. I continued to stare up at him, at his face. His eyes shied away from mine, and it was then that I snapped from my illusion. I stood on my own, ignoring Mortensen’s hand. Mortensen sighed quietly, then stood as well. I realized I had probably just slammed my doorway into Mortensen’s good side shut, but I did not care, for I was too scared by how much I realized he reminded me of Oliver.

            “That’s stupid,” My inner voice said to me, “The only thing they have in common is height and hair colour. Mortensen’s face looks nothing like his, and Oliver was a lot scrawnier.” Still, I had trouble shaking away my unease.

            Julie had begun crying, so I looked over. She was sobbing over Ragsdale, who appeared to have blacked out. His head was on her lap. They had been closer, it seemed, than student and teacher…

            “Is he… dead?” Mortensen asked me.

            “Unconscious and in shock.” I said. I could hear sirens, probably fire trucks, in the distance, so I continued, “Even if we called an ambulance promptly, he'd be dead before they arrived…”

            “What about the students?”

            I lowered my head and shook it. “We were too late to do anything…” I realized then that I wanted to step back. Helping detectives, freelance or otherwise, showed me a side of the world that I was not ready to face. “I… I'm sorry, but… after this, I fear I'll have to leave you, Mortensen.”

            Mortensen lowered his head as well. “I understand…” He told me. I knew I was going to miss him even though I had known him for no longer than a few hours, but I had no choice.


	14. Chapter 14

            Two years after my encounter with Detective Mortensen and the sequential death of Mr. Ragsdale, I was finally granted a medical degree. I was allowed to work in a hospital in Southfield as a doctor, however, only one that was to be consulted. I was not allowed to work directly with any patients unless they were only there to ask questions. This was unfortunate for me, since I wanted to help people in a more direct manner, but I would make do with what I was allowed, since I had not even gone to university for my degree. My sneaky entrance into the medical field was a secret, however, to my co-workers, none of whom I became at all close with.

            Although I did not work directly with patients, or even in the emergency area, I still saw traumatizing things. Severed limbs, car accident victims, broken bones jutting through skin… I saw it all being pushed down those halls on gurneys, often groaning in unexplainable agony. It reminded me of what I had done to Autumnwolf. I often wondered how much more I could stand to see, what with the nightmares I began having. I was so sorry for what I did, sorry beyond words. I was not required to stay in the field, but I did not want to leave, for I had nothing better to do with my time.

            In the early hours of May 11th, 2018, the hospital staff were all quite busy, so I was sent to help in the maternity ward. I was given the simple task of letting fathers know when their wife had completed birth, and… if there were complications. I saw a few men break down into tears that morning. Then I found Mr. Dustin Patefield. I could tell that Patefield was quite tall even though he was sitting. He had been on his way back from a trip somewhere with his wife when she began labour, else they would have just gone to a local hospital in their town of residence: New Providence, New Jersey. Patefield sat in the waiting room with his hands clasped in front of his face, which was covered by long, dark purple-ish hair. His left leg bobbed nervously up and down. I could tell he was terrified, but luckily I had good news for him.

            “Mr. Patefield?” I asked him in a serious tone. For a long moment, the man stared up at me, probably examining my face to determine whether or not he should be afraid. My poker face is likely useless to him, however.

            “Is my child alright…?” He asked me in a shaky, hoarse voice, “And my wife…?”

            I forced a smile for the man. “Yes, Mr. Patefield. You’re now the father of a beautiful, healthy baby girl.”

            Patefield grinned in relief as he lowered his head and clasped his hands between his legs. I was not done yet, though.

            “However,” I continued. He looked up at me as though I were giving him a fright. “Your wife is still in labour. It appears you’re going to be the father of _two_ young rascals as opposed to one.”

            Patefield stared at me in disbelief as he asked, “Are you serious?”

            I nodded my head slowly. “Indeed I am.”

            The man smiled again. At around three in the morning, his wife had completed labour, so I was allowed to escort him into the room. He rushed to the side of his wife, who was of Chinese descent, and nearly began to cry out of sheer delight.

            “Yin, I’m so happy.” He said, and his wife gave him a weak smile.

            A nurse soon brought in his two children, both girls, giving one to Patefield, and the other to his wife. I watched them hold and love their new children. It was truly a beautiful moment, and if I am to be honest, I was quite moved by it.

            That was why, a year later, I was surprised to see Detective Mortensen waiting in the hall at the hospital. I saw him from halfway down the hall, and I could not stop myself from quickly walking toward him. He would not have come for me unless something terrible had happened. When he heard my footsteps approaching him, he turned his head to look at me. He looked no different than when I had left him three years prior, disregarding the exhaustion he clearly felt.

            “Cheshire?” He greeted me in the form of a question as he stood to stand before me in the narrow hallway.

            “Why, Detective Mortensen…” I began, “What are you doing here?”

            “Cheshire, look, I…” Mortensen shook his head with a deep sigh. “Shit, I guess I just need your help again.”

            I frowned. “I thought you were a detective.” I said, scolding him. “Shouldn’t you be able to solve your own cases?”

            “This is worse than the case with Ragsdale.” Mortensen argued, “Two little girls and a woman have already been killed, and more may join them.”

            I felt my mouth fall agape for a moment. Worse than the case with Ragsdale, even though only three people were dead? “Ragsdale killed a group of twenty-seven grade twelve students _overnight._ ” I snapped at the detective. “Don’t you dare say the death of two children and a mere woman is ‘ _worse_ ’.”

            “He’s going to kill more.” Mortensen assured me, staring me right in the eyes with a very grim face. “This _will_ be worse.”

            “And even so, you want _me_ to get involved again.” I accused. Mortensen lowered his head in defeat, as if he had again been talked into working with me and already knew that I would not play ball again.

            “I’m not forcing you to say yes.” He said with his head lowered somewhat. “You can refuse if you want.”

            I paused. Dammit, as much as I wanted to deny it, I had missed Detective Mortensen. Perhaps, I thought, working with him may save me from the nightmares brought on by working in a hospital… Just maybe. I sighed.  
            “Look, just… Tell me who you’re looking for.” I mumbled.

            Detective Mortensen looked at me, seeming somewhat relieved. He answered, “A young man, two years a father. His name is Dustin Patefield.”

            I stared at Detective Mortensen in silent horror. Patefield? I remembered that Detective Mortensen had said two children had died, along with a woman. There was no way… Had Mortensen been talking about Patefield’s wife and daughters?

            “He—…” Detective Mortensen stopped himself, noticing my facial expression.

            “I’m sorry,” I said, “did you just say Dustin Patefield?”

            “Yes, why? Do you know him?” Mortensen asked.

            “Well, sort of. I was working here on a shift when his daughters were born.” I looked away, solemnly adding, “I got to see him when he first held those little girls…”

            Mortensen let out a deep, almost-sympathetic sigh. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

            “I’ll help you.” I blurted, cutting him off.

            “Wait, really?” He asked, surprised at my sudden change in attitude.

            “Oh, I’ve been aching for something to do, anyway.” I told him. “Besides, I need to see what changed: what made Patefield _snap_.”

            “But…” Mortensen began, looking around awkwardly. “What about your job here?”

            “Stuff my job!” I answered. “I’d much rather be a psychiatrist.” Then, thinking of Lizabeth Jasper, I quietly added, “Too many bad memories, working here…”

* * *

 

            Detective Mortensen took me to Detroit, where we caught a plane to New York. From there, he brought me to New Providence. The entire venture had taken only two hours, and I was mildly impressed. The detective brought me to a nice looking house. Around its fence was the typical “DO NOT ENTER” crime scene tape. He entered the yard, so I followed, but he stopped in front of the door and looked down at me.

            “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” He asked me cautiously. “It’s… pretty gruesome in there.”

            I nodded and Mortensen opened the door, letting himself in first. When I entered, the first thing I saw was a man. I assumed, from his age, that he was an underling of Mortensen’s.

            “Hey,” He said in a cheery way, coming forward to shake my hand. “Welcome back, Dr. Cheshire!”

            “You know me?” I asked.

            “Of course! I’m the son of a bitch that dragged you out of your little hole to come help us.”

            “Actually,” Mortensen butt in, “that was me. You’re the son of a bitch that _made_ me drag Cheshire out of his ‘little hole’.”

            “I say toe-may-toe and you say toe-maw-toe.” The young man, who was an inch shorter than me, quipped back.

            Mortensen shook his head, though I could tell by his face that he was amused. His poker face was still just as bad as it had been before, and though he was trying to hide his smile, he was failing miserably.  
            “Cheshire,” He said, gesturing at the man, “this is Inspector General Simon Callahan. He’s my superior, technically.”

            “Damn straight, I—wait, what do you mean, ‘technically’?”

            Ignoring Callahan, Mortensen gestured for me to follow him into another room. Callahan remained in place, jokingly petrified by the dis he had just received. He seemed like a funny and boisterous man, I had to admit. However, at the same time, I could not help but get the haunting suspicion that he did not like me, though I had seen no real indication of any distrust.

            I followed Detective Mortensen into the living room… or rather, into a nightmare. Two little girls, both only a bit older than one, so two infants really, laid upon the floor. It was a bloodbath. They had been butchered. One laid on her stomach, while the other laid on her back. I will spare you anymore details.

            “Jesus Christ,” I said.

            “You called?” Callahan shouted at us.

            “Shut up, Simon.” Mortensen shouted back. Callahan pouted and crossed his arms, but did indeed shut up. What an amusing pair they made. I ignored their banter, though, for now was not the time to laugh.  
            “What do you think?” The detective asked me.

            “What do you mean, what do I think?” I asked, “Two children are dead.”

            “Was it Patefield?”

            “How the bloody hell am I to know? I thought you already knew it was him.”

            “Read the damn crime scene, Cheshire. Was it him? Where is he?”

            I was not sure to what extent Mortensen believed my abilities to be capable of assisting him. There was truly no way of knowing exactly where Patefield was, but something told me it was not him that we were after. Unless…

            “Does…” I shook my head.

            “What?” Mortensen asked.

            I decided to continue, “Does Patefield have a history?”

            “Of…?” Mortensen asked openly.

            “Of mental illness?”

            “Um…” Mortensen stumbled. “Well, I mean… Not that we know? But, I mean, I guess he must. Unless, y’know, he just had a _random_ psychotic break and decided to murder his family. Frank?”

            “Hm?” I looked at him, and he was looking across the room.

            “Yes?” I heard, and I jumped in surprise when I saw a man standing beside the television.

            “Holy hell,” I gasped, clutching my chest from the severity of my silly fright.

            “Frank,” Mortensen resumed, “did you find anything around that might suggest Patefield… Oh, never mind.” He changed his question entirely, simply to, “How’s it going?”

            “Not great…” The man replied as he proceeded to look behind the television.

            “Trust me,” I said to him, “when I say that you’re looking in all the wrong places.”

            I was allowed to look around freely, as I was wearing gloves. I noticed a pile of books on a small table in the living room, next to a lamp. They were not arranged neatly.  
            “Patefield had something inside one of these books.” I stated, beginning my hypothesis. “He pulled it out in a hurry. It was likely a small scrap of paper.”

            “Should I be concerned that you’re hiding something from me?” asked Mortensen, with suspicion subtle but noticeable in his voice.

            I stood up from my crouch and looked at Mortensen, frowning in disbelief at his suspicion. “If he left the scrap of paper here I would’ve shown it to you, wouldn’t I?”

            Mortensen only shrugged. I led Mortensen into the kitchen, being careful not to step on the drying bloody footsteps that led from the living room to the bathroom. There was blood on the floor in the dining room/kitchen combo, and I stared at it in thought. I could picture it in my head: Patefield, having grabbed a knife from a drawer, used the knife on himself to test its sharpness. No other explanation made sense to me.

            “Ah, seems Patefield cut himself.” I announced.

            Mortensen gave me a confused look, looking first at me, then down at the blood, and finally back at me. “What makes you so sure of that?” He questioned.

            “It’s his blood, and he was the only one with a knife.” I answered as though it was as simple as that, which, for me, it actually was. “He did this before he killed anyone.” I noticed the phone, and added, “Patefield called someone.”

            The blond detective snorted and wisecracked, “Before or after massacring his family?”

            “Oh, it was most definitely afterward.” I replied with confidence. We then proceeded to the bathroom, which was almost more of a mess than the kitchen and the living room. I decided to bring my attention first to the clothes beside the bathtub.  
            “Well, look here. It’s Patefield’s clothing.” Beside the clothes was a small puddle of blood.

            “Patefield’s blood, right?” Mortensen asked, believing he was catching on. However, he was wrong.

            “Not entirely.” I answered. “Most of it is his family’s.”

            “Did he kill one of them here?” The detective inquired.

            “No. It must have dripped off of his skin as he got in and out of the shower.” I turned then to the medicine cabinet. The mirror was shattered and the shards of glass had blood on them. There were green tablets scattered around the floor, a few packets that said tablets belonged to, and a crumpled box. I picked up the box and read the green text.  
            “I was right.” I said.

            “About what?” Mortensen asked. I showed him the box.

            “Risperdal. It’s an anti-psychotic. Risperidone.”

            Mortensen took the box from me, appearing interested in it. “Huh.” He said. “An anti-psychotic, you said?”

            “Yes.” I answered, now unsure.

            “Where was this?” He asked.

            “On the floor.”

            Mortensen casually dropped the box. From his pocket, he pulled out a little flip-open note book. Attached to it was a pen, with which he began writing. I did not need to see what he was writing to know that he was making a personal note about Risperdal, though I did not know why. I ignored it and took a good look at the bloody mirror.

            “Patefield smashed the mirror with the hand he cut.” I thought aloud. “Perhaps he was driven to do this by grief.”

            “You need to see upstairs.” Mortensen said suddenly.

            I looked at the detective. “Do I want to?”

            “Do you want to see a dead woman?”

            “I would honestly rather not.”

            “Would you?”

            “No.”

            So, we went upstairs. In the bedroom, I saw Mrs. Patefield. She was lying on the bed, stab wounds all around her chest.

            “My lord…” I gasped.

            “So,” Mortensen began, not at all phased by the corpse on the bed. “Where do you think he is?”

            “Mortensen, I… I don’t know what you think I’m capable of, but I can’t help you. He could be anywhere. Until he strikes again, I… Hell, even then it may not be obvious!”

            “You’ve met him, haven’t you?”

            “Yes, but that pokes even more holes in this! This does not look like something that man would do, Mortensen. Dustin Patefield would not murder his wife and children, not after the love I saw in his eyes when he first laid eyes on his daughters.”

            “But,” We said the following in unison, both apparently thinking the same thing: “it _has_ to be him!”

            We both stood there confused for a moment before I asked, “Why are you here, anyway?”

            “What do you mean?” Mortensen asked.

            “You said you’re from France. But you’re taking a case in New Jersey. Why are you here? Shouldn’t the local police be taking care of it?”

            Mortensen laughed. “Well, let’s just say that my boss, Mrs. Bellamy… She’s a fucking whack job. Her priorities are super fucked, so whenever an interesting case pops up, she sends the Callahan twins out there and myself to take the case… even if it’s halfway across the planet, apparently.”

            I raised a brow, but decided that I would be able to tell if Mortensen was kidding. Although he was laughing, it was obvious that he was being truthful, and merely laughing out of embarrassment.

            I followed Mortensen outside, ready to leave the crime scene and return home. As we were heading for the door, Mortensen ahead of me, Callahan spoke.

            “You two are going to work together for good now, right?” He asked.

            His question made me think. I could return back to my job as a doctor at the hospital. However, I figured that I was ready to make a bigger difference. I was ready to see the side of the world that working with a detective showed me.

            Mortensen began, “What makes you think tha—”

            I cut him off. “Most certainly.”

            The detective quickly looked at me, his face flushing somewhat. He seemed startled by my affirmation. “Wh-what?” He stammered.

            “Aha, that’s great!” Callahan applauded in sing-song, ignoring Mortensen. “Take care, you two~!”

            “Come now, Detective Mortensen.” I said. “Let’s go.”

            “Working together…” Mortensen asked me as we stepped outside. “… for _good?_ Do you _hear_ yourself when you talk?”

            “Of course! Why wouldn’t I want to keep on working with you? It lets me see the barmy side of things.” I explained. However, Detective Mortensen proceeded to give me a strange look.

            “The _what?_ ” He asked, confused, and then it hit me.           

            “Oh, yes, you’re probably not familiar with British slang, are you?” Under my breath, I moaned, “Well, this changes things to a degree…” Then, I continued in a chipper tone, “But no matter. Let’s go.”


	15. Chapter 15

            It was not for another three months that I returned to New Providence to visit Detective Mortensen. When I arrived at the address he had told me the last time we met, for he was now staying in the city to solve the case (which was still a very strange situation to me, since he was from France), I hesitated before knocking on the door. The detective had no idea that I was due to arrive. What if he was busy? However, I had no time to ponder this question further, as the door suddenly swung open. Detective Mortensen poked his head out awkwardly. He was wearing his coat, still fully dressed, as if he had only just returned home from somewhere.

            “Cheshire.” He greeted me by stating my name. Though I felt bad for bothering him if he had just got home, it was clear that he was delighted to see me.

            “Hello.” I replied, trying to seem friendly. Detective Mortensen stepped to the side, allowing me to enter, which I did with reluctance.  
            “I don’t mean to impose,” I said.

            “Nonsense,” He responded. As I walked into Detective Mortensen’s temporary residence, I took a look around. The walls were gold-coloured with dark caramel-coloured vertical stripes. The floors were black tiles. Against the living room wall closest to the front door was a television on a stand, and across from it, against the wall that divided it from the opposite side of the house, was a pale hazel couch with a small black table at either end. To my immediate left upon entering was a silver-coloured bookcase. I made note of the fact that most of the books were not what I had expected Mortensen to be interested in; there were a few French fiction novels by an author that I did not care to read the name of at that moment, but most of his library was comprised of books related to either medicine or baking recipes. When I saw a book that appeared from its title to be a list of various pharmaceutical drugs, I finally realized why Mortensen had made note of Risperdal.

            “Welcome to my boring abode.” Mortensen said to me as he walked past me, spinning somewhat as he paced deeper into the living room. He appeared to be in a rather good mood, and I wondered if perhaps he wasn’t entirely sober, but I had not smelt any trace of alcohol on him, only the thick smell of cigarettes. Closer to where he stood, to my right, was a table with a monitor on it. I realized that he had what had been introduced to me by Autumnwolf as a “computer”. The monitor was currently off, however, though the hum of the computer suggested to me that it was on.

            “Boring, you say?” I asked as I stepped a bit further into Mortensen’s home, making sure not to step too far into his living room. Directly in front of me, though past the dividing wall, was a staircase that I supposed led up to a second floor. “Well, I don’t find it to fit that part at all.”

            “Are you a fan of interior design, Cheshire?” The detective asked me in jest.

            Only half joking, I replied, “On occasion, yes: sometimes I am.”

            Detective Mortensen snickered. I found it interesting how he had, apparently unconsciously, made a point of standing far away from me. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” He told me, looking in my direction but really staring down at the wall below my left hand. His natural detective-like curiosity was sparked by something, however, and he then proceeded to ask me, “Why did you come here, anyway?”

            “What do you mean?” I pondered aloud.

            “Well, I mean, it’s been a few months since you’ve even spoken to me.” His good mood appeared to be fading fast, now replaced with vague suspicion. “Why did you want to be here right now?”

            I had a confident, believable answer prepared. “I—” Suddenly, as I began to speak, I was struck with a horrible headache and a wave of vertigo. I could not bring myself to speak anymore as I brought a hand to my head.

            “Uh… Hey, you okay?” Mortensen asked, taking a step closer to me.

            I tried desperately to figure out what was happening to me and why I felt so terrible all of the sudden. Then, it hit me. This feeling was the same feeling that I had experienced before the Autumnwolf Incident. My chest suddenly felt heavy and constricted with fear for Detective Mortensen’s safety.

            “You look really pale all of the sudden…” Mortensen continued. He was still getting closer. I wanted to tell him to run.

            Trying not to alarm him, I said, “Oh dear, I… suddenly feel rather _unwell,_ ” trying to get him to back off by bringing my hand to my mouth as though I would be sick.

            “Are you going to be alright?” He asked, keeping his distance but not far enough. I tried to step back, but my legs were weak under me, so it was more of a stumble.  
            “Cheshire?”

            Before I knew it, my legs had buckled, and I fell backwards onto Mortensen’s floor. My vision was blurry and going dark. The vertigo was intense.

            The last thing I heard before I blacked out was Mortensen, who shouted “Cheshire!” as he rushed to my aid.

* * *

 

            “Cheshire? C—can you hear me?” Detective Mortensen’s deeply concerned voice was the first thing I heard when I awoke.

            I still felt terrible. Trying to sit up was a mistake, as it brought the vertigo back. I grumbled in a disoriented way and forced myself to open my eyes. It was dark, and for a moment, I thought the blurry silhouette of someone with light blond hair was Oliver. However, I realized shortly after, as my eyes adjusted to the small amount of light that was hitting his face that it was actually Mortensen. I was thankful that I had not hurt him, though I did not give any indication of it. I stumbled on my words, but managed to clearly say his name in the form of a question.

            “Oh, thank Christ.” Mortensen sighed in relief, sitting back a bit. However, I realized that he was crouching, so really, he only got off of his knees. I was still in a daze. “I was worried about you for a minute there.”

            I finally managed to lift my upper body, propping myself up with my left elbow. I pressed my right palm against my forehead, and asked in a groan, “What the devil just happened to me?”

            “I’m not sure, you suddenly fainted.” Mortensen told me. “Are you feeling better now?”

            I shook my head, but said, “I still feel pretty out of sorts… But, yes, I am.” Only then did it dawn on me that I was lying down in a room that was not the living room, and I looked down: I was on a bed. The sheets and blanket, which I was lying on top of, were both white, and the frame, durable wood, was black… I suppose. Again, it was dark in the room.  
            “Is…” I began, somewhat flustered, “Is this your bed?”

            Despite the low lighting, I could tell by Mortensen’s body language that he was embarrassed by the question.  
            “ _Yeeah_ , yeah, I… I—I didn’t know where else to put you.” He answered.

            I was unsure of how much time had passed since I blacked out, but I felt bad, since I had ultimately imposed on the detective. Trying to stand, I stammered, “Oh, please forgive me, sir. It seems I’ve caused some trouble with that incident.”

            Mortensen’s hand on my collarbone stopped me from getting up. “Bullshit.” He told me, aggressive in how he defended my right to impose. “It’s not your fault.”

            I stared up at the detective. I am unsure as to what exactly my face displayed to him, but whatever it was, it made him flush somewhat and remove his hand from my body.  
            “You should probably rest and see if you begin feeling better.”

            “Is that really alright with you?” I asked. Again, the extent of Mortensen’s kindness was surprising me, for I had expected him to kick me out or at least not put me in his bed, but he had for some reason decided that he wanted me to be able to rest in comfort.

            “Of course.” He said. When I did not reply, he added a hesitant, “I guess?”

            I looked down. I had no idea why he was being so nice to me, but then I realized that Mortensen looked cold and reserved, but his eyes were incapable of lying, and they still showed me that he was helplessly kind-hearted. I liked that about him, I realized; I found it to be charming in a strange way, how he tried to be emotionless even though he was obviously a very emotional man.  
            “Thank you kindly, Detective. I believe I shall take you up on that offer.” I told him. He froze up a bit, though he smiled, which suggested to me that the words “thank you” were, sadly, not words he heard very often.

            Mortensen stood (now not wearing his coat) and began walking to the door. “I’ll be, uh… downstairs. If you need anything, just holler.”

            “Mortensen,” I said after him, and he turned to look at me. “Thank you, truly.”

            The detective became very confused, and I again saw the gears in his head turning, as it was displayed on his face in another roller coaster of emotion. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, presumably to say “you’re welcome”, but only a faint pop of air came out, and he appeared to be trying hard. Eventually, he smiled and closed both his eyes and mouth. After opening his eyes, he very awkwardly managed a brief, “No problem,” before leaving the room. I began to wonder about his childhood, because he had apparently never been shown how to express or respond to gratitude. I decided it was none of my business, however, and laid back on the bed. I looked to my left and saw a clock. It had a light on it, being the only light that had allowed me to almost clearly see Mortensen’s face in the dark room. There was no lamp. It was only then that I discovered that the room had windows, but there were thick curtains covering them. That was all I could see apart from another television, which was against the wall that had the windows, on the opposite side of the room from the bed. I imagined Mortensen would lean against the bedframe, watching television while lying on the bed.

            I again brought my attention to the nightlight on the clock, since I realized it did not sit well in my head. Why was it on? Had he turned it on for me, or had he turned it on for himself as he sat beside me? The fact that it was there at all was confusing to me, since he was a grown man. A fear of the dark was a childish fear to have in my mind. If he needed light, why did he close the bedroom door? It did not make sense. Still, I soon drifted into an uneasy sleep. I felt, very faintly, as though something was watching me.

* * *

 

            A little more than a year went by, and still Detective Mortensen and I had not been able to track down Dustin Patefield. It was now December 24th of 2020: Christmas Eve. I, personally, had never celebrated Christmas, but Mortensen apparently had. There was a tree near the living room windows, to the left of the television, on which there was a broadcast of burning yule logs. I watched Mortensen, whose back was to me, as he put gold tinsel around the beautifully decorated tree.

            “It’s rather pretty.” I said, holding a mug of hot cocoa that Mortensen had made for me. We had just finished drinking quite a lot of alcoholic eggnog. Yes, we had decided to get a little drunk, because Mortensen was allowing me to stay the night rather than making me try to return to Southfield on Christmas. I was better able to hold my rum than Mortensen, who was somewhat tipsy, but not enough to be too obvious: the only reason I knew he was tipsy was because he seemed generally happier and more laid back.

            Hearing what I said and seeming somewhat flustered by it, Detective Mortensen turned to face me. The collar of his pale salmon-coloured dress shirt was popped a bit more open than usual, and his purple tie was half undone. His patchwork brown balmacaan and blue suit blazer laid over the back of the rolling office chair in front of the computer, beside my gold army-style buttoned black trench coat.  
            “Sorry, what?” He asked, nervous for some reason.

            “The tree over there,” I explained, “It’s pretty.”

            Mortensen laughed modestly. “This old thing? Hell, it’s a fake.”

            “Of course it’s artificial. Why would you ever want an actual tree in your living room?” I asked him in rhetoric. “It sounds like such a bothersome hassle.”

            Quietly, Mortensen came closer to me. He sat beside me, to my right, on the couch. The couch was rather small, so our legs touched for a second, prompting Mortensen to bring his knees closer together and myself to drape my right leg over my left.  
            “Well,” He began, “it’s part of the Christmas tradition. I guess I just sort of stopped caring after…” He trailed off suddenly, seeming distant and sad. I figured that he was thinking of his wife, so I sighed, which spurred him to change the subject.  
            “Uh. I hope that cocoa’s not too hot.”

            “Oh, no, it’s… fine.” I answered meekly, taking a small sip of the delicious beverage. “Quite good, actually.” I kept my responses brief and vague, because for some reason, a thick tension had arisen between Mortensen and I.

            Mortensen did not reply, which caused me to stay quiet. We were both silent, waiting for the other to speak. The tension could be cut with a bloody knife at that point. After a minute that felt more like an eternity, I finally took an uneasy breath to speak.

            “Chesh—”

            “Morten—” I stopped immediately when I realized that I had cut Mortensen off. Now we both stared directly at each other, again in utmost silence. I could feel my cheeks growing a tad hot from embarrassment. “Oh, shit.”

            Almost in-sync with one another, we both looked at the television just to alleviate the worsening tension. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was beginning to grow unwittingly fond of the detective. I buried my burning face into the large turtleneck collar of my zip-up purple sweater and thought about Autumnwolf.  
            I liked Detective Mortensen, truly, I did. That was why I decided that I could not stay near him, lest I hurt him, too.

            “Uh, Detective Mortensen,” I began, both nervous and sad, “I really think—”

            “Where are you from, Cheshire?” He cut me off.

            “What?” I asked after a brief pause.

            “By the sound of your voice, I’d think somewhere in England, but…”

            I hesitated. Perhaps I did not have to be direct and risk hurting his feelings.  
            “Um, well, yes, that’s… absolutely correct.” Did I really want to do this? “I’m from…” Too late now. “… the town of Catshill.”

            “Catshill? Wait, wasn’t that the place in the legends?”

            I felt my heart sink. “Oh, so I take it you know the story of that place, then…”

            “Yeah, something about eclipses, or…” Mortensen trailed off, not sure how to continue.

            I suddenly ranted, “They’ve taken to calling it the Eclipse Genocide, haven’t they? Because of the weapon being the fabled Eclipse Potion? How _childish._ ” I blame the alcohol.

            Mortensen looked at me, surprised by my sudden burst of anger. “Is… this a sensitive topic for you?” He asked.

            “Yes.” I answered. Then, regretting my decision, I changed my answer: “I mean no!” But that wasn’t the truth. “I mean—oh, bloody hell, I don’t even know! Look, could we just _please_ change the subject?”

            Mortensen took his eyes away from me and stared at the floor between his feet. “Yeah, sure.” He replied delicately. “Sorry.”

            “ _Don’t_ apologize.” I snapped. I then changed my tone, gingerly adding, “There’s no reason for you to apologize. You were just curious.”

            The detective looked at me again, vague guilt in his soft brown eyes. “Still, I shouldn’t have brought something like that up.”

            Again, we simply stared at one another. The tension returned as quickly as it had disappeared, and neither one of us seemed to know what to do or say. He stared at me with such affection, and it confused me.

            “Wh—… What—… Just what are you staring at?” I asked him.

            Mortensen stammered, apparently caught off guard by my question. “N—nothing, I just… It’s remarkable.”

            “What is?” I questioned, my heart pounding erratically, anxious for an answer.

            The detective paused for a long moment, apparently trying to figure out what to say. Being careful with his words, but obviously lying, he told me, “That… That strip of bleached hair. It looks _very_ silky.”

            My face grew hotter, though I realized that my face flushing might have looked more like my face paling to Mortensen, due to the fact that my blood was now Eclipse Potion.  
            “Um… Yes, I… I guess it is? I’d never, uh… thought about it before, really…”

            “This is getting weird, isn’t it?” Mortensen giggled nervously.

            “Somewhat, yes…” I gave him an honest answer.

            With a deep breath, Mortensen seemed to regain his emotional footing. “Alright, I’ll change the subject.” I was prepared for a lot of possible subjects, but not for the one he chose. “What’s your first name, Cheshire?”

            I felt my face become even hotter. I was sure that my face displayed distress. My mind for some reason opted to remind me of Oliver, doing so nearly on loop.  
            “ _Why don’t you ever call me Oliver…?_ ”  
            “ _You can’t even bring yourself to call her by her first name, yet you can call me by mine._ ”

            “Um, are you okay?” Mortensen wondered, laughing somewhat. “All I asked was what your first name is…”

            I panicked, and I am still not sure that I can blame it on the alcohol. I understood the question to be suggesting that Mortensen wanted to share intimacy with me by being on a first name basis. I liked Elliot Mortensen a lot, but I felt as though first name basis should be saved for close relatives and lovers, of which he was neither to me. Unless, of course, he wanted to be the latter…  
            The nervous fear in my mind became a whirlpool of anxiety, and I finally managed to stammer, “Um, D—Detective Mortensen! I’m very flattered by your offer and all, but… I mean, that is to say, I...” Perhaps my sexuality was up for debate due to my feelings for Oliver Roarke, but for some reason, the thought of being romantically involved with Detective Mortensen frightened me terribly.

            “Sorry, what? Did I miss something?” Mortensen questioned, but I wasn’t really listening.

            “I… I—I… I need to get out and get some fresh air.” I quickly told him, desperately needing an out. “Let’s never speak of this again, eh, chap?”

            Mortensen said something after me, but I tuned him out as I dashed out the front door and stood on his porch, watching snow falling gently onto the streets. The street lights along the side of the road illuminated falling snowflakes, which I watched to help ease my ill heart. I leaned against the railing, holding my forearms as I shivered. It was rather chilly outside, and I wished that I had grabbed my coat. I realized I could still go inside for it, but then I would have to see Detective Mortensen, and I was nervous about that.

            Speak of the devil and he shall appear, and apparently the same principle more or less applied to Mortensen, for as I was thinking of how nervous I was about seeing him again, I heard him step outside to join me. I did not turn to look, deciding it would help me to just remain focused on the street. Suddenly, he draped my coat over my shoulders. Then he stood beside me. I looked over at him to find that he was dressed the same way he had been inside. It was also at that point that I discovered that he had not given me my coat, but his own. I blame the alcohol.

            “You know,” He spoke up unexpectedly, “the truth is, you look just like her.”

            “Who?” I asked.

            “Emilie.” He answered. “My wife. It’s almost like some sick bastard upstairs is playing a joke on me… or as if we were fated to meet or some corny shit like that.”

            I turned back to the street. “Maybe you’re right…” I told him. “Maybe we were fated to meet. Coincidence or fate, though, we’re still here right now, with each other.”

            “Against the odds,” He replied, which was strange to me.

            “Against what odds? There hasn’t been anything keeping us from seeing one another.”

            Mortensen was quiet, too quiet, as if he knew something I didn’t; as if there was, in fact, something keeping us from seeing one another that I was merely out of the loop for. That was the first time I felt concern about Mortensen’s personal life, but I decided to ignore my gut instinct. I truly wish that I hadn’t ignored my intuition.


	16. Chapter 16

            Six days later, on December 30th, Detective Mortensen drove me to Summit, New Jersey. The detective had just received a call that afternoon from Inspector General Callahan telling him that they finally had, potentially, found another murder committed by Dustin Patefield. The towns were so close that the drive took less than ten minutes, and it was not very long before Mortensen pulled the car to a stop in front of a one-storey house. We were not in the most expensive part of Summit. I had the idea that maybe Patefield had originally lived near here, but I threw that idea out the window because I had nothing with which to back it up.

            “You ready for this?” Mortensen asked me, his voice a little bit hoarse. “They should still have the body here. Forensics and all that shit isn’t here yet.” Recently, I had noticed that Detective Mortensen was looking rather pale. He seemed more tired than usual, and occasionally I would see him drift off, only to jolt himself awake. Occasionally, he would bring his hand to some part of his chest and appear slightly discomforted, but he continually assured me that he was alright, so I did my best to ignore it. On that day, he looked paler than usual, but seemed otherwise fine.

            “I am as ready as I’ll ever be, Detective.” I answered. So, Mortensen stepped out of the car, with me following suit on the other side. We clambered up the stairs onto the porch of the one-storey building, which did not, this time, have the crime scene tape present anywhere, and Mortensen entered first. He stood in the doorway for a moment, blocking my entrance, and over his shoulder I could see that the hallway we were about to enter was quite narrow.

            “Callahan, we’re here.” Mortensen said as he stepped further inside. I followed him still. The walls in the hallway were a pink-ish beige colour, and the floor was made of wooden planks. I could see Callahan, who Mortensen approached, and Callahan’s much-taller brother, who stood off to my left. Across from the other Callahan brother, sitting down with his back to the wall beside a door into another room, was a man with black hair that covered half of his face. He wore black-framed glasses, a grey hoodie, and black slacks. I supposed that he was the victim’s friend or family member, if not a victim himself.

            “About time.” Callahan teased. Mortensen said nothing, but did lightly cough.

            “So, why did you call us here?” I asked.

            “Well, it’s sort of complex…” Callahan admit. “This girl, Sherrie Lowe, apparently killed herself.”

            “Who’s the guy?” Mortensen questioned, looking at the black-haired man.

            “Her fiancé, Jack Kingson.”

            “Oh, Jesus.” Mortensen already seemed reluctant to progress, presumably because of his late wife.

            “Thing is, he thinks his fiancée’s death wasn’t a suicide, but a murder.” Callahan told us, and his blue eyes stared at Mortensen as if trying to ask him what he thought.

            “Oh?” I began, “And just who does he suspect committed it?”

            “One of their mutual high school friends… Dustin Patefield.” Callahan then turned his head to glare accusingly at Kingson. “I personally just believe that, if anything, _he_ must have killed her.”

            Suddenly on the defensive, Kingson stood. “I understand why you would assume that I did it, but I swear on my life that I would never _do_ such a thing!”

            Callahan shook his head a bit, and for a second I was nearly captivated by the soft way in which his brown hair swayed, somewhat out of sync with his movement. “Oh, please. That’s what they all say.”

            Unable to watch Kingson be falsely accused for something that he obviously did not do, I said, “No, he’s telling the truth.”

            “Wait, what?” Callahan looked at me, surprised by my argument. “You really think so?”

            “Yes, without a doubt.” I answered.

            “Thank you, sir.” Kingson said. I nodded slightly in response, and he then sat back down.

            Callahan, on the other hand, sneered at me. “Tell you what, Cheshire.” He started with his voice full of stubborn contempt. “Take a look around before you make any snappy judgments like that.”

            I was going to argue that I did not need to take a look around to make generally-correct judgments, and Mortensen apparently sensed that, because he shook his head at me and gestured for me to follow him through the door that Kingson sat beside. I gave in, walking beside the detective. He opened the door, revealing that it was a bathroom. There was a woman, Ms. Lowe if I had to guess, lying on the floor beside the bathtub. The tub was filled with bloody water, and Ms. Lowe’s wrists were slit, creating a small puddle of what blood she had left before she was removed from the tub on the tiled floor. Nether Mortensen nor I said anything as we examined her body.

            It came to my attention that her mascara was smeared. There was no reason for her to do this. The only way it could be construed as murder was if Patefield had harmed her emotions so badly as to make her believe that suicide was her only out. Maybe, if Kingson knew it was a murder, he knew more than he let on. I gave Mortensen a look, but he was still examining the body, and I suddenly felt a deep sadness hit me. He was so pale. I wanted to ask how he was feeling, but I knew that he would just ignore me or tell me he was fine, so I didn’t bother. I was not expecting him to look at me, but he did, and we made eye contact. He realized what I was trying to say with my eyes and stood up, and left with me to question Kingson.

            “Kingson, I need to ask you some questions.” He said.

            Kingson looked up at Mortensen, already seeming somewhat aggressive toward him. “What on Earth is there to ask? I told you what happened already. I came home and I found her in the bathtub with her wrists slit.”

            Mortensen sighed, realizing that getting anything out of Kingson would be a hassle.

            “Please allow me to speak with him, Detective Mortensen.” I said. Mortensen glanced at me uncertainly, but then nodded and stepped back, allowing me to take his place in the narrow hallway.  
            “So your name is Kingson, correct?”

            Kingson looked up at me. “Yes.”

            “My name is Dr. Cheshire, and this is my…” As I stared at Mortensen, I suddenly was unsure of what to call him. I mean, he was technically a friend. But ultimately, I had no idea what he was to me. I soon opted with, “ _employer_ , Detective Mortensen,” since it was all that I could think of.

            “Well, it’s very nice to meet the two of you.” I could not tell if Kingson was being sarcastic.

            “You’re surprisingly calm for someone whose fiancée just committed suicide, Kingson.” I stated my opinion.

            “Because I know who pushed her over the edge.” Kingson replied with confidence. “Besides, I’m honestly surprised she didn’t go through with it earlier.”

            I felt my polite smile become a confused frown. Mortensen and I shared a suspicious glance, and then I looked back at Kingson. If he wasn’t mourning his fiancée, then why was he sulking? “Pardon me?”

            “She’s always been such an over-dramatic person.” He explained, “I think Dustin convinced her to finally end it with all good intentions, though.”

            “Really?” asked I. “How so?”

            “He knew her longer than I did. He’s always been pretty clever, too, so he probably figured out even sooner than I that she was a complete whore.”

            In the corner of my eye, I saw Mortensen’s jaw drop either in disgust or shock (or maybe both). He stepped a bit closer to Kingson and I, and complained, “Whoa, okay, I think I have to draw the line there.”

            “Be quiet, Mortensen.” I said. I was getting somewhere, and Mortensen was taking me backwards. If he wanted any sort of explanation from Kingson, he would just have to keep his mouth shut, which he reluctantly did. “So you think that he made her kill herself for your sake?”

            “Yes.” Kingson admit. Apparently, his idea of Dustin Patefield was still pretty positive, and I began to wonder if maybe he had been in cahoots with the madman. “He stopped liking Sherrie around the time that she and I hooked up. I used to think he was jealous, but that was stupid, because Dustin’s asexual.”

            “Very interesting.” I told him, though I only half-meant it. “How close were you with him in high school?”

            Kingson sighed, trying to find a way to explain. “We had a bit of a rocky relationship at first, and then we got pretty close… But then he changed, and we suddenly just… drifted apart, I guess.”

            “And just what exactly do you mean when you say that ‘he _changed_ ’?” I asked.

            “It’s a really long story.” Kingson said, struggling to find the words to describe but failing. “He just… _changed._ It’s hard to explain.”

            I told him, “I understand completely. That is all I have to ask you for now.”

            “Alright then.”

            Mortensen looked at me, and I knew that he wanted to get out of there. I nodded, knowing that we had discovered all we probably could from the scene. However, as Mortensen and I began to leave, Callahan spoke up.

            “Are you two leaving already?” He asked.

            “Yes. We need to start looking for Patefield before it’s too late.”

            “Fair enough…” Then, Callahan’s face became one of sincere concern. “Are you sure you’re alright, Mortensen?”

            “I’m fine.” He said a little bit too quickly, suddenly defensive. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?” Still, he did not turn to look at Callahan.

            “He _does_ have a point.” I stated, not bothering to mask the worry in my voice. “You are looking awfully peaked right now, Mortensen.”

            “I’m just… tired, okay? I’m alright.” The lack of eye contact, or even of having him face me, made me worry that he was keeping something from me. “Let’s go, Cheshire.”

            I followed him back to his car, but I could not help but feel uneasy.

* * *

 

            “Are you sure you don’t want some coffee?” Mortensen asked through a yawn. It was the morning of January 1st, 2021. I had come over early that morning, mainly because I was too concerned to sleep. Mortensen had either realized that I hadn’t slept or was simply offering since he’d made some for himself, but I had requested cocoa instead, which he had given me.

            “Ugh, no thank you, Mortensen.” I replied, unable to hide my distaste in coffee. “I think I’ll stick with this.” I took a sip of the cocoa and was slipped into a world of delight. He had become even better at making cocoa, almost overnight. “My God, man. Has anyone ever told you that you make absolute amazing hot cocoa?”

            Mortensen averted his eyes and answered, “Yes. Only my wife.” He then began to cough dryly. He began to cough so hard, in fact, that he put his cup down to ensure that he didn’t spill coffee on himself. I wanted to pat his back or something, but instead I sat there frozen, hoping that he would be alright. Fortunately, he soon cleared his throat and leaned back. “Anyway.” He said, trying to dismiss the coughing attack.

            “Mortensen, are you alright?” I asked, seriously concerned. “That cough of yours is starting to sound dreadful.”

            “Yes, yes, I’m—” He cut himself off by needing to cough more, but quickly grabbed the reins on his throat (metaphorically, of course) and tried to force them away. “—fine. I didn’t get to see you last night. How was your New Year’s Eve?”

            Suddenly, a realization hit me like a bloody freight train. It was New Year’s Day. Patefield and Kingson, Kingson had implied, were still quite close. The odds of Patefield being in Summit were rather high, but we would have to act fast. I jumped to my feet.  
            “My God. That’s it!” I shouted.

            Mortensen gave me a weird look. “Um… Cheshire?”

            I turned and looked down at him. He was again holding his mug of coffee. His face combined with that fact almost made me want to laugh, because he was so still and normal, but his expression was both confused and neutral at the same time. However, I paid my sense of humour no mind.  
            “I know where we could find Patefield.” I announced.

            Mortensen put the mug back down on the end table. “Really? Where?”

            “Quickly now, follow me! There’s no time to explain!”

            Mortensen, who had dressed himself appropriately while making the coffee, grabbed his coat and followed me outside.

            “I’ll drive.” I said.

            “Cheshire, you don’t have a license.” He told me.

            “So?”

            “ _So_ , if you take the wheel, I’m pretty sure I could arrest you.”

            “Are you really going to argue when you’re coughing your lungs out every five minutes?” I asked, my hand already on the handle for the driver-side door.

            Mortensen sighed heavily before tossing me the keys. “Just don’t kill us, Cheshire.”

* * *

 

            Driving a car was simple… or so I thought before I drove a car. Mortensen was clinging to his seatbelt the whole time, the fear of death quite noticeable in his enlarged pupils. I swear, at one point I may have even heard him mumble a prayer under his breath, though I was fairly certain that he was not a Christian man. I soon stopped the vehicle on a street in Summit.

            “Let’s go.” I said.

            “I don’t think we can park here.” Mortensen replied.

            “What are they going to do?” I asked, “Arrest us?”

            “Tow my fucking car, for one thing. And then probably arrest you, yeah.”

            I convinced Mortensen that the car would be fine, and we got out. We walked in silence for a while, or rather, I raced around with Mortensen walking briskly after me. Eventually, I stopped running, and we walked together.

            “Remind me to never let you drive again, Cheshire.” Mortensen said. However, I wasn’t listening: I was too busy focusing on the man walking ahead of us. The stranger wore a long black coat which had three flaps, unlike the regular two that most coats had. He was wearing a dark grey hoodie with a blue interior, dark blue jeans, and black heeled boots. His hair was dark purple-ish with vibrant blond tips.

            We had found Dustin Patefield.

            “Hold on a second!” I whisper-shouted to Mortensen, “It’s him.” Then, I took off, running toward Patefield, but making sure to keep a bit of distance.  
            “I say! You there! Halt! In the name of the law!”

            Patefield turned to face me. His light blue eyes glowed in the shade, I swear. I felt the beginning of another headache, but I did my best to ignore it. Patefield glared at me with such contempt that I nearly shivered.  
            “Oh, what’s this?” He asked playfully. “A challenger who _dares_ to raise his voice at _me?_ ”

            “Cheshire, wh—what are you doing?” Mortensen asked, coming closer. I suddenly felt afraid for his safety, and began to wish that I had not brought him along.

            “Are you Dustin Patefield?” I asked, ignoring my fear. Mortensen was not far behind me, but if Patefield tried anything, I was fairly certain that I could take the blow instead and Mortensen would be unharmed.

            Patefield smirked madly. “I _was._ However, now, Dustin Patefield is dead. I am now… _Ruler Eternal!_ ” He allowed his words to linger a little bit before taking a good look at me. “Hmm… There’s something about _you…_ ”

            I gulped. It wasn’t possible that he knew my history… was it?

            “Ah, you! You must be the infamous Dr. Cheshire I keep hearing about.” He gave me a curtsy, lifting the two side panels of his coat up as he bowed. “It’s nice to meet you at last.”

            I took a small step back, taking a somewhat defensive stance in front of Mortensen. “Mortensen, stay back! He’s going to kill you if you don’t!”

            “What about you?” Mortensen countered. “He’ll kill you if you don’t stop trying to talk him down.”

            Ruler Eternal began to laugh hysterically. “It’s cute,” he said, “how you two care for each other. But, Cheshire, whatever happened to Autumnwolf?”

            I froze. “Don’t…”

            “Is it true that you murdered everyone? That the Eclipse Potion drove you mad and made you into a monster?”

            I did not know how he knew, but I wanted him to stop. I _needed_ him to stop. “Quiet about that…! I’m warning you…”

            Ruler Eternal shrugged, continuing with, “I mean, that’s what I hear, and if it’s true…” He glared at me viciously. “Then you have no place telling me _anything,_ since _you’re no better than I._ ”

            “Cheshire,” Mortensen asked after a brief but powerful silence. His voice was shaky: was he afraid of me? “What’s he talking about?”

            “Oh, sorry, does he not know what you did to poor Collin Locklear? I never did like his indie films anyway, but still, you _really_ fucked him up!” Ruler Eternal again laughed in hysterical amusement.

            I stepped forward, deciding to stand my ground. My headache was growing worse, but I was determined to show Patefield who was in charge. “I’m not giving up that easily, Patefield. All of this destruction… for what? Why are you doing this? And what exactly do you hope to achieve with this madness?”

            Patefield shook his head. “You’ve got some balls on you, Cheshire. You ask that question even though you’re the one that helped me become what I am today…” Out of sheer arrogance, he added, “Thank you for that.”

            I could hold my fury back no longer, and I shouted at him. “Just shut up, you!!”

            “Cheshire…!” Mortensen’s slightly-frightened voice soothed my rage, however slightly.

            Patefield wore the most malicious smirk. He had figured something out. “I like you when you’re angry, Cheshire. Let’s see…” His eyes moved from me to Mortensen. “… how angry _this_ will make you!”

            I instinctively dodged a long blue tendril that extended quickly toward my face. Ruler Eternal had apparently done experiments of his own, resulting in what I assumed to be a freak accident mutation. I did not know how many of these tendrils he had, but they were light blue, like Eclipse Potion; in fact, I wondered if they contained them, since there was a liquid inside them. I heard Mortensen gasp, and rapidly turned my head to see that the tendril had wrapped itself tightly around Mortensen’s left wrist. In his hand, he held his gun, which he proceeded to drop due to the tightness of the tendril’s constriction. This all happened within about two seconds. I hardly had time to react when Ruler Eternal, who I realized had another tendril ready to impale, pulled the first tendril toward himself, practically ripping Mortensen off of his feet with the amount of force.

            “Detective Mortensen!! Get down!!” I screamed. Next thing I knew, I was charging forward. I wrapped my arms around Mortensen’s trunk, tackling him to the ground. As we were falling, I felt a sharp pain in the lower right side of my abdomen: trying to stab Mortensen, Ruler Eternal had instead impaled me with the second tendril.

            Mortensen and I collapsed to the ground, myself being on top of the detective. He quickly got out from under me. My vision was black, and I could not move, but I was not unconscious: I could still hear and feel Detective Mortensen, along with the insane laughter of Ruler Eternal.

            “Ch—… Ch—Cheshire…!!” Mortensen’s voice was shaky and unstable. I did not think he was crying, but maybe he was on the verge of it. “Oh God, Cheshire… Hey, wake up!” I tried to obey, but my body would not obey my commands. My headache was unbearable. “Can you hear me? _Wake up!_ No, God, please not again…!”

            Suddenly, I could see. The light blue tinge was back in my eyes. Oh, Christ. Not again. My body sat itself up quickly, glaring directly at Ruler Eternal, who suddenly looked terrified.

            “Huh?” was all the madman could manage.

            “Cheshire…!” Mortensen sounded relieved. He had not seen my eyes, I guess.

            “Aww,” I heard myself snarling, feeling Eclipse Potion sliding out of my mouth as I spoke, “What’s the matter? You’re looking awfully _scared_ , Mr. Patefield.”

            “I…” Patefield stammered, “But you should be dead…!!” He appeared to think for a moment, and then he came to a solemn realization. “Oh, I see. I should have realized sooner that I can’t kill you with the Eclipse Poison…”

            I took three large steps closer to Patefield, who took a single step back.  
            “It’s time you learned a proper lesson in etiquette!” I snarled, and then I started to laugh with equal insanity. Then, I lunged forward, and I began to fight wildly with Patefield.

            “Stop!” Mortensen shouted at me. “Cheshire, what’s gotten into you? Stop this immediately!”

            It took everything I had to make myself ignore Mortensen, lest I kill him for being too loud. Luckily, he stayed silent after that. I presume that he must have been conflicted about exactly what to do, since I saw him out of the corner of my eyes, and he was merely standing in one place, holding his gun but not necessarily aiming it anywhere.  
            Patefield wasn’t necessarily a good fighter, it was simply that his tendrils were a bother with how quickly they moved. He soon caught both of my wrists with them, holding me in place. I lurched forward, snarling like a wild animal, but I could not get any closer to him.

            “YOUR INSOLENCE WILL COST YOU YOUR LIFE!!” I roared.

            Laughing with bravado, Patefield bragged, “I’m too strong for you!”

            “Dustin!” The voice of Jack Kingson made me temporarily take my attention off of Patefield; Kingson rushed to Patefield’s aid, coming from further down the street.

            “Oh, Jack! Welcome to the party!” Patefield smiled back at Kingson. I knew it: they were working together all along! “Care to give me a hand?” He seemed to gesture past me as he said this: at Mortensen.

            “Just this once.” Kingson said. He began to walk past me to get to Mortensen, who I heard take a few steps back.

            Before anyone could react, my rage at their intent on harming Elliot Mortensen gave me the strength to yank one of my wrists down just enough to jump up and sink my teeth into one of Patefield’s tendrils. He howled in excruciating pain, revealing that the tendrils were both an asset and a weakness, and released me.

            “ _Dustin!_ ” I hardly had time to assess my next move before Kingson elbowed me in the back of the head. The unexpected blow knocked me over, but I caught myself with my palms against the ground, now in some sort of weird crouch. Kingson rushed to Patefield’s side, at which point Mortensen finally aimed his gun, directly at Kingson.

            “ _Stop!_ ” The detective barked.

            “Sh— _shit_ …!” Patefield drew all but the wounded tendril back into his body: the remaining appendage trembled as he clenched his fists and teeth in agony.

            “Oh, shit, Dustin…! Come on! We need to get away!” Kingson tugged on Patefield’s arm. Mortensen’s eyes showed more intent to kill, but his firm aim still wavered somewhat.

            “But…!” Patefield began to complain.

            “ _Come on!_ ” Kingson insisted. They began to run away. Maybe Mortensen would have shot one of them, but at the time I doubted it, and my body jumped to its feet, dashing forward which made them run faster.

            “GIVE IT UP!” I screamed after them, my voice deep and gravelly. “YOU WON’T ESCAPE FROM—” Suddenly, a sharp pang of agony in my head brought a feeling of weakness and severe vertigo. “—m—me…” I heard Mortensen shout my name as I fell forward, but I was unconscious before I even hit the ground.


	17. Chapter 17

            “Ugh, my head…”

           When I awoke, my head still ached, but I was again able to think. I appeared to be in Mortensen’s living room, laying on the couch. I could not remember how I got there, and almost immediately, I began worrying about Mortensen. I hadn’t hurt him, had I? If I had, I was unsure of how I was going to live with myself. Experiencing inner panic but too out of it to display it, I struggled to sit up.  
            “Mortensen…?” I looked around with bleary eyes, and it only took me a second to find Mortensen, who was standing in front of the bookcase with a book open in his hands. When he heard me, he glanced over, snapping the book shut and blindly returning it into the shelving system in front of him. Then, he hesitantly began to walk my way. He seemed a little uneasy.

           “Oh, you’re finally awake!” He said, feigning pleasure. “You’ve been asleep for almost a whole day now.”

           “Oh dear.” Had I really be unconscious for so long? The darkness outside implied so. Mortensen must have carried me back to the car and into the house. I felt bad, but then I again remembered what happened before I passed out, and I recognized the unease in the detective to actually be masked fear. “Are you alright? You weren’t _hurt_ by my…?”

           Mortensen, to my surprise, gently shrugged. “Me? I’m fine, Cheshire. You’re the one that got banged up back there.”

           I allowed myself to sigh in relief. “Oh, thank God. I thought I’d—…” I cut myself off. I was sure that Mortensen knew what I was going to say, but I couldn’t bring myself to even picture it.

            After a long silence, Mortensen spoke. “What happened to you back there, Chesh?”

            I was prepared to attempt to answer the question, but then my mind caught on something. “Hold on a second there. ‘ _Chesh_ ’? Has it really come to the point between us where you feel the need to shorten my name?”

            “Yes,” Mortensen admit, seeming dead serious, “now answer the question.” He was not about to let me avoid the question.

            “Well, I, uh…” Oh, who was I kidding? I could not tell him the truth: he’d never believe me if I did! Instead, I opted for a half-truth: “Please, forgive me, sir. I had a moment of weakness and… lost all control.”

            “That sort of answer won’t cover it.” Oh no. “Your wound healed remarkably fast, and…” The fear in Mortensen’s eyes returned, “… your eyes…!”

            “That’s one of the effects of the Eclipse Poison…” I blurted, remembering that Ruler Eternal had mentioned a different concoction. “Under… certain circumstances, at least.” Then again, I realized, _Ruler Eternal had mentioned a different concoction._ Had he continued my work? He must have been truly insane!

            “Are you going to be alright?” Mortensen asked, his fear mostly replaced with worry.

            “Oh, most assuredly, Mortensen.” I told him. “I will be.”

            For a couple of seconds, we were both silent. Mortensen now seemed relieved. However, I was anything but. If Ruler Eternal had continued my work, and intended on using it on Mortensen just to spite me, his life was in danger, more so than he would ever suspect. I could not let him put himself at such a great risk. The longer he remained on Patefield’s tail, the more likely his demise, and even if it meant forcing him back to France, I had to protect him.

            “Detective Mortensen,” I began, my heart struggling into my throat against my will, “I’m afraid we’ve got to drop the case.”

            Mortensen looked over at me in a heartbeat, surprise written blatantly across his face. “Wh—what?”

            I began to explain an alternate reasoning for my decision. “Patefield will be merciless if he ever crosses paths with us again. The best way to go about this is to just let the whole case solve itself. There’s no doubt in my mind that Patefield will eventually destroy himself from the insanity.”

            Mortensen stubbornly shook his head, standing his ground. “We can’t just drop the case, Cheshire: there are lives at stake here!”

            I gave him an equally stubborn glare. “Either way we do this, Mortensen, we’ll still wind up gambling. The only question at the end of the day is: do you want to be a bystander, or one of the poker chips?”

            “You can’t make me choose something like that.” Mortensen’s stubbornness was beginning to give way, despite his words.

            “Do you have a death wish, Detective Mortensen? If you don’t, then please,” I begged aggressively, “ _heed my advice._ ”

            Mortensen’s defence crumbled, and he lowered his eyes to the floor. I could tell that he was chewing at the inside of his mouth from the way his lips moved, and I figured that maybe this was his way of resisting emotion. It took him a long moment to speak, and when he did, he was very quiet. I almost didn’t hear him.  
            “Is that it, then?” He asked, sort of shaky. “What happens next?”

            “Well… You’re returning to France, aren’t you?”

            He shook his head. “I can’t return until Bellamy gives me orders, and she hasn’t told me to return yet.”

            I thought for a moment. I had not expected him to stay. “So… Will you be taking more cases here, then?”

            “Maybe.”

            I did not want to leave him alone. “Just give me the word, then.” He looked at me, and I added, “I’ll work with you whenever you want me to, Detective.”

            Mortensen smiled at me, I mean, genuinely smiled. It was not an awkward smirk as it had been before. Again, I could not help but compare Elliot Mortensen to an angel.

* * *

 

            Around the end of February, Detective Mortensen and I again had a case in New Jersey. This time, it took us to a long-abandoned demolished town called Sea Breeze, which was known, rather ironically, for having most of its locations burn down in various fires. I was not entirely aware of what the case was, and neither was Mortensen, but we drove down an unpaved road to get to the entrance of a cavern, in front of which were two police cars, and the car of the Callahan twins, who were standing with a panicked woman.

            Mortensen and I got out of the car and approached Inspector General Simon Callahan.

            “What seems to be the problem, miss?” I asked who I presumed to be Mortensen’s client.

            The woman looked at me, already crying. “My son is in the cavern!” She sobbed.

            I blinked for a moment. Why was she so hysterical? Slowly, I turned my head and looked over my shoulder at Mortensen.  
            “Detective, we don’t rescue cats from trees, too, do we?” I asked sarcastically. Mortensen furrowed his brow uncomfortably, as if trying to silently discourage me from saying such things.

            “He’s got a gun,” The needlessly-worried mother explained anxiously, “and he plans to kill himself!”

            My eyes nearly bulged from my head. “A gun?!” I shouted in disbelief. “How did he get his bloody hands on a gun?!”

            “Welcome to America, Dr. Cheshire.” Mortensen said.

            I buried my face in my palm, frustrated. “Ugh, whatever. Why does he want to kill himself?”

            The woman was silent for a moment, trying to think. When she found nothing, she cried, “I… I don’t know…! I’m a failure of a mother…!”

            Rolling my eyes, I grumbled, “You probably are.”

            “Cheshire!” Mortensen scolded. “That’s uncalled for!”

            I only shrugged. “She said it, not me.”

            The woman turned to Mortensen, realizing she would get no real assistance from me. “Please, help my son!” She pleaded. Mortensen did not seem sympathetic, but he did nod in agreement.

            “Stay here.” He told me. I scoffed in agitation, but he walked away, leaving me to try to comfort the pile of hysteria that stood trembling and sniffling in front of me. Believe me, she was not pretty when she cried. In fact, I was not sure that she was ever pretty. I sighed, not really wanting to deal with her, but not having a choice. I was not sure how much time had passed before she sobbed almost incoherent words.

            “P—please, my son…!”

            “Would you _please_ hush?” I snapped impatiently. “I keep telling you, your son is fine!”

            “Dr. Cheshire?” I heard Callahan ask from behind me, but I did not turn to face him. “Where’s Mortensen?”

            “What do you mean? He’s right—” As I answered, I turned to where Mortensen had previously been standing, but he was gone. I turned fully, looking around. The detective was nowhere to be seen. “—here…? Alright, actually, that’s a good question.”

            “I think I saw him go into the cavern.” The taller Callahan brother said, causing both myself and the shorter Callahan to look at him in shock.

            “You saw him do what now?” Callahan asked, glancing at the cavern. No one had gone inside yet because it was clearly too dangerous; the cave was dark and filled with water, and looked to be quite humongous. Probably likely to collapse, as well, considering how old it looked.

            “He went into the cavern about five minutes ago.” The other Callahan said.

            I could not explain it, but suddenly I was the hysterical one. If Mortensen had gone inside to see the suicidal boy, there was no doubt in my mind that he would be shot, if not killed by some other means. “He _what?!_ ” I nearly screamed. “It isn’t safe in there, especially not for him!”

            Callahan, concerned but remaining collected, said, “Well, I mean, maybe it is…?”

            I whipped around and snapped at him, “Callahan, you bloody fool! You know damn well that cave is dark, slippery, and ridiculously unstable! What if he slipped and hit is head? What if it caved in on him?!”

            “I don’t think we need to worry that much. Mortensen can handle his own…” Callahan tried to comfort me, but I was inconsolable, not realizing how silly my panic was.

            He would have come out by now he if was okay. Something must have happened. My emotions rose to a peak they had not reached in years as I realized something was repeating: I had, like with Oliver, not been able to tell Mortensen my real feelings for him. I was not even sure if I truly knew what my feelings for Mortensen were, but they were strong, whatever they were. Was it love? I did not know.

            “Oh, he’s left me so very sick at heart…” I moaned. “I wonder that he’d be so insolent to do something so dangerous without me!” I started storming toward the entrance to the cavern, now angry. “What a horrid thing to do to me! He had better make haste! He thinks he’s so clever, thinks he’s a real cock of the walk…! Why, when he gets out here, I’m going to—!”

            “‘Going to’ what?”

            I stopped just short of Mortensen, who had just stepped out of the cavern, and I looked up at him. Our eyes met. I had stopped way too close to him. My face began to burn up, and for some reason, I could not pull my eyes from Mortensen’s.  
            “Going…” Breathless, I tried to remember what I was going to say, but found nothing. “Going to…” I took a step back, allowing Mortensen to come further out of the cavern. He was soaked, which dampened the smell of cigarettes that I had grown so used to.

            “Elliot!” Callahan shouted, relieved as well.

            “The boy…?” I asked, still staring up at Mortensen. We had broken eye contact, but my head would not move. I was just so relieved that I had to keep staring in order to assure myself that he was really there.

            “He’s fine.” Mortensen told me, as I saw a young boy run out from behind him and into his mother’s needy embrace.

            “That’s a relief…” I heard Callahan sigh.

            Soon, Mortensen shivered, pulling his arms close to his chest. “Christ almighty,” He laughed, “I’m freezing.”

           Finally, I lowered my head. My deep affection and relief was giving way to deep frustration. I tried to hold it back, clenching my fists, but I was failing. I find it funny how sometimes, after someone does something stupid, you’ll for one second be happy that they weren’t hurt, but then you’ll want to punch them in the face for doing the stupid thing to begin with, thereby hurting them, which means that in the end, the stupid thing did in fact hurt them. That twisted logic was what made me resist the urge to smack Mortensen to the ground.

           “Cheshire?” Mortensen asked, happy but slightly nervous. “You alright?”

           “You…” I could not figure out what to say at first. “ _You…!_ ”

           Mortensen tilted his head somewhat, like a confused puppy. He did not yet seem to understand what was the matter with me, but I was about to make it very clear.

           Looking up at him, I began to nag angrily. “My blood is up because of you, you dunce! Do you not think of anyone but yourself?! You could’ve just said to me, ‘Oh, by-the-bye Cheshire, I am going to go on an impromptu rescue mission,’ but _no!_ ” I snapped my head back down, pinching my eyes shut. “If you didn’t come back in fine fettle, I would’ve—!! Would’ve—!!”

           “Would’ve what?” Mortensen asked, obviously pretending to be clueless. He did not seem to be very intimidated by my screaming. If anything, his tone suggested that he might have found it cute.

           “Bah!” I yelled dismissively. “I don’t know what I would’ve! Hang it all, Mortensen! Heaven and earth, _please_ , don’t leave me behind like that!” I looked at him as I pleaded. He wore a bittersweet expression and a small smile.

           “Okay,” He said in a casual way, “I won’t.”

           “Give me your sacred honour!” I demanded.

           “What’s that?”

           “ _Promise me_ , confound you!”

           “I promise.” The vow was made with a more serious tone and expression, almost solemn in nature. Seeing him finally take me somewhat seriously, I began to relax, though I was still upset. I crossed my arms and pouted at him.

           “Good. It’s settled then.” I told him. “You will let me bear you company, wherever you go.”

           Mortensen crinkled his eyes in confusion at my choice of words, and in response asked, “Excusez-moi?”

           It was my turn to be confused. “Excuse me?”

           “Exactly my question.”

           I lowered my eyelids, rolling my eyes. I then re-worded my statement. “You’re taking me with you. _Everywhere._ ”

           The detective seemed surprised. “Wait,” He asked, “is that what I agreed to? Honestly, I didn’t understand at least half of what you said.”

           I chose to scrunch my nose at him, and then I looked away. He could be so frustrating sometimes, but somehow, I still cared immensely for him. I would not have ever suspected that my feelings for him would become such a force to be reckoned with, to the point where I would actually nag at him like a scorned housewife. I heard Mortensen chuckle somewhat, but I did not look at him.

           “I didn’t know you cared that much about me, Cheshire.” He said. Though he was laughing, the remark was legitimately thankful.

           “Now you’re just trying to vex me.” I complained, though I was thankful as well.

* * *

 

           On the night of April 4th, I had trouble sleeping. I was laying down on Mortensen’s couch. I had not slept very well the previous night since I had returned to New Providence early again to spend the day with the detective, who still had free time, since he had not received a case in a little over a month. Since I was worn out, Mortensen convinced me to stay the night, and I agreed so long as he slept in his own bed. He had a little bit of a complex where he could not force me to sleep on the couch, but when placed between a rock and a hard place after I began forcing him to force me, he eventually gave in.

           I yawned. He must have been asleep by now, I reasoned. It had been at least two hours since he said goodnight to be and went upstairs. Still, something was keeping me awake. I felt like someone was watching me.

           “Mortensen?” I quietly called out. “Is that you?”

           I heard something move near the computer. My ‘blood’ ran cold, and I started to panic.

           “No, come on,” My inner voice assured me, “it was nothing. Just look at what it was.” Reluctantly, I gave in. Slowly, I began to sit up. The slower I went, the more tension built up. I finally bolted upright, only to anticlimactically discover that the sound had merely been Mortensen’s coat slipping off of the rolling chair he tended to hang it upon. I sighed in relief, but then I began to scare myself by questioning its placement: I was sure that Mortensen had taken the coat upstairs with him, hadn’t he?

           A frantic knock on the door nearly made me jump into the air like a startled cat. I began to calm myself. Look at me, afraid of bumps in the night. I was a grown man. I was 5’10” and had built up a bit of muscle. I could take whatever came at me if there even was anything, so what did I have to be afraid of? There was another chaotic knock at the front door, and I looked at it. I glanced at the clock: nearly two in the morning. Who would be knocking at the door at this ungodly hour?

           More knocks triggered me to quietly creep toward the front door. I looked out through the peephole and could make out the silhouette of a man who seemed to be terrified. I was torn on what to do, but I reasoned with myself that I could not just ignore him. I opened the door. What a mistake that turned out to be.

           Next thing I knew, I had a gun to my forehead. I stood there, petrified, staring at a pale man with black hair. He wore heavy black eye makeup, making himself look rather evil. The lower left side of his lip and his right nostril had silver stud piercings, and he wore a black choker that matched the long black coat he wore.

           “Bonne nuit, Dr. Cheshire.” He greeted, keeping his dark and gravelly voice low. I felt my breathing pick up somewhat in fear when he said my name. “I’m sorry that we had to meet like this, but if you make a sound, I will blow your brains out, and I’m sure Mortensen will be very displeased with both of us if that happens.”

           I stared at the man in horror and anxiety. Who was he? How did he know Mortensen? I felt myself shake my head somewhat as I pictured him shoving me out of the way and running upstairs to harm Mortensen. He only smirked at me with his thin, pale lips, and shoved the gun further into my face.

           “Come now.” He threatened in a tone that suggested amusement. “Don’t make me force you. If you don’t fight me, nobody needs to get hurt just yet.”

           Slowly, I raised my hands up in surrender. I had no choice but to give in to him. He grabbed me by the chest and pulled me outside, now holding the barrel of the gun against the back of my head. He heard him quietly close the door behind me, and then he gave me a small shove.

           “Start walking. We’re going somewhere.” He told me. Fearing for Mortensen’s safety otherwise, I obeyed the man and began walking on my wobbly legs. I had no other choice.


	18. Chapter 18

            “I can’t believe you actually opened the door.”

            I glared at my kidnapper in silence. I was bound to a chair in an old apartment. It was rather rundown, but he’d not taken me quite far from Mortensen’s home. Hiding in plain sight, I supposed. It had been a couple hours, during which I had been kept at gunpoint. The man, who stood but an inch taller than me, had not introduced himself yet. His black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail with a yellow elastic, and his white pants were somewhat dirtied. He leaned against a table across the room from me, next to a stereo system and portable house phone, which was considered antique by then even though it was new to me. The man whistled a tune that I did not recognize, then snickered.

            “It’s just,” He laughed, “I would’ve assumed that you of all people would’ve been smarter than that. I am relieved that Mortensen didn’t open the door, though. I mean, not that he would’ve. He’s not that naïve… not anymore, anyway. I made sure of that.”

            “Who are you?” I demanded. “How do you know Mortensen?”

            He looked at me with his amber-coloured eyes and almost seemed disheartened. “You mean he hasn’t mentioned me? Funny, he should’ve. He’s obsessed with me, you know, whether he admits it or not.” He thought for a moment. “I guess I’m obsessed with him too, but he’s all pissy with me because he likes to pretend that I killed his wife.”

            I paid more attention to the talkative man, feeling my heart pick up in pace. He killed Mortensen’s wife…?  
            “You…” I said almost unconsciously.

            “Has he ever mentioned me?”

            I shook my head. “I know nothing about his wife…”

            The man laughed heartily, and then announced to me, “Well, then let me be the first to enlighten you. My name is Malachy. I basically beat the living hell out of his wife and put her in a coma. Mortensen likes to say that I killed her, but the coma was the extent of my actions. I was not the one who killed her.”

            “Who was, then?” I asked with hesitance.

            Malachy stood up and approached me, getting right up in my face. “ _He_ was.” He told me in a dark voice. “ _He’s_ the one that pulled the plug on her. You see, they told him there was a chance that she’d get better. He was scared.”

            “You’re lying.” I accused. “Scared of what?”

            Malachy only smirked wider. “Let’s just say he’s not a pure angel. He’s as fallen as an angel can get.”

            “I don’t understand,” I murmured, surprised that he also thought of Mortensen as an angel… Or was there another meaning behind his words?

            “It doesn’t matter.” Malachy stood, pacing back to the stereo system with his hands behind his back. “One of us has to die, unfortunately. I’ll be sad if it’s him, but I won’t go down with a fight, and I don’t think he has the guts to pull the trigger on me.” Before I could say anything, he turned on the stereo, and began playing a song that was too outdated for me to recognize. I later figured out that it was _A Kind of Hush_ by The Carpenters. With a vaguely romantic sigh, he told me, “This song always reminds me of Elliot. For some reason, I keep listening to it before I decide to bother him.”

            “Why are you doing this?” I asked. Malachy raised his head and let out a heavy sigh. I added: “I don’t see what you get out of this. It doesn’t sound like Mortensen’s done anything to you. So why bother with him?”

            The man slicked back his messy black bangs, which ended up falling back into place over his face. “That’s for another time.” He sounded almost… upset. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, and save the good stuff for later.” He then picked up the phone from its charging station and dialled a number, turning the stereo down a tad. “Mortensen’s bound to be awake by now. He’s probably looking for you. So, I’ll give him what he wants.” The man then placed the phone against my head. “Like I always have.” I remained still, hearing the phone ring once or twice, and then hearing Mortensen pick up.

            “Hello, Detective Mortensen speaking.” I heard.

            I looked up at Malachy. He was holding his gun, now pointing it at my face. I did not know what to do. Did he want me to speak?

            “Uh… Hello?”

            “Mortensen?” I treaded cautiously, keeping my eyes on Malachy to make sure he didn’t try anything. What did he want me to say?

            “Cheshire?” Mortensen sounded confused, but generally in a good mood. “Wh—where are you?”

            I had to warn him. “Mortensen, whatever you do, _don’t_ listen to him! Do _not_ come here, do you _hear_ me? Don’t try to sto—” Before I could finish, Malachy cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and pulled the phone from me. I didn’t dare make a sound, though I knew deep down that Malachy would not shoot me if I did. My death would likely be detrimental to him.

            “Long time no see, Mortensen.” I heard Malachy say. I could only hear his side of the conversation, but I could almost figure out what Mortensen was responding with.  
            “The one and only. I’ve missed you, buddy.” After a pause, he asked, “ _Dead?_ ” He began to laugh. “You’re funny. You shot me in the stomach, but lucky for me, you apparently weren’t aiming for any vital organs, _and_ you brought an ambulance around quickly.” Just what was their history? Mortensen shot him in the stomach?  
            “The odds of my survival were surprisingly high. And yet, even so, you still thought I was dead?” With teasing affection in his voice, Malachy cooed, “You’re so cute, Mortensen!”

            I took a moment to think things through. What was their relationship? Malachy seemed saddened when I mentioned the idea of Mortensen having done something to him, and he had told me that Mortensen was scared of his wife waking up from her coma. He was, whether he realized it or not, trying to spell something out for me. What was it?

            Malachy looked at me, but was still speaking to Mortensen. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve replaced your old partner... You seem to like this new one a lot more, am I right?”

            I could almost hear Mortensen’s shouting from where I sat. Malachy pulled the phone away from himself during Mortensen’s brief rant and rolled his eyes, making a corkscrew gesture beside his head with the hand he held his gun in.

            “I can’t tell you that.” He said. “All I can tell you is that on the ninth, we’ll be waiting for you somewhere in the sewers under your street.” A dark, wild look found its way into his eyes. “We’ll make it a game; how long will it take you to find us with vague instructions and only one day to save your partner?” In a dark growl, he said with a malicious grin spread across his square-jawed face, “ _I’ll have fun ticking down the seconds._ ” Then, without another word, he ended the call and put the phone back down into the charging station. He turned the stereo back up: _Close to You_ by Richard Chamberlain now played, as _A Kind of Hush_ had ended.

* * *

 

            I spent a few days as Malachy’s hostage, but if I am to be honest, I did not feel so bad about it. He fed me, and even undid my restraints a few times. He began to treat me more like a guest than a hostage, and I decided it would be in my best interest to simply obey what little he asked of me: mainly, not to try to escape.

            “Why are you doing this, if I may ask again?” I eventually brought up my previously-ignored question. Malachy sighed again, causing me to say, “You don’t have to answer right away if it’s difficult for you.”

            The man shook his head, sitting across from me in another chair, his gun on his lap. “It’s not that it’s difficult.” Finally, he was giving me something to go off of. “It’s just…”

            I leaned forward. I noticed that he was bobbing one of his legs, and I slowly began to mimic the behaviour to lure him into a sense of security.

            “You know, I do wish it didn’t have to be this way. Mortensen seems like a nice guy, and… Well, I really like him.” He crooned to me.

            I wanted to wryly point out that he was not doing a very good job of showing his admiration, but I bit my tongue, not wanting him to shut me out again.

            “We had some good times. Good memories. I know he thinks about me whenever he looks in the mirror.” He lowered his head, almost seeming ashamed. “You have to understand that if I had things my way, things would be different. Nobody would’ve come from that situation with a broken heart. Alas, the story was not written that way.”

            This I could not ignore. “The story?” I asked. “What story?”

            “Life is a story, Dr. Cheshire. In mine, I am the main character, and Elliot Mortensen is my secondary protagonist. Unfortunately for both of us, my story happens to be a thriller, filled with lies, betrayal, and eventual murder.” He scoffed. “And all for what? For power? For dominance? For love? Such a silly story. I’m not the writer, though. I’m just an actor, playing the role of Malachy.”

            “Then who are you?” I questioned. “Inside?”

            “Mattieu Delacroix,” He answered, seeming uncharacteristically humble in that moment, “former actor. Nice to meet you.”

            This man was delusional. Suddenly, I felt bad for him. He truly believed that everything about his existence was scripted.  
            “If your story is already written, then who will die? Will you kill Mortensen?”

            Delacroix shrugged. “Maybe. Who knows? I’ve not been given a script for that yet.” He then tapped the side of his nose, and with a small smirk, he hummed, “I’ve got a haunting suspicion that I know who’s going to die.”

            “No one has to die, you know that, right? Your destiny is not set in stone, Mr. Delacroix. You could step down.”

            He shook his head once more. “Malachy would not step down. He can’t.”

            “Why not?” I leaned forward a bit more.

            Malachy proceeded to give me a serious look. “There’s something about Elliot that you need to know, Cheshire.” He told me in a grim voice. “Something’s after him. It wants him. It won’t stop until it has him. God knows how long it’s been trying, but it will infect the lives of everyone he loves. So, it’s in your best interest to keep your distance from him. Don’t get involved with his demons.”

            It was my turn to shake my head. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

            “You love him, don’t you?” He asked, making me freeze up. “I’m not judging you if you do. I’m just worried that if you love him too much, he may begin to reciprocate. You _don’t_ want him to reciprocate, doctor. Because _it_ wants Elliot all to itself. That’s why it wanted his wife dead, don’t you see?” Malachy stood, warning me now. He took a good look at me and seemed defeated. “Oh, what’s the point? You do look just like her. I’m sure he’s already reciprocating.”

            “You make it sound as if he’s inhuman.” I said in disgust.

            “Look at me, Dr. Cheshire! Elliot Mortensen loved me. Look what _it_ did to me. It killed two birds with one stone by breaking Elliot’s heart.”

            “What do you mean, he _loved_ you?”

            “Why do you think he killed his wife?” He asked me, sounded as though he was frustrated and done talking. “Because he didn’t want to pay the medical bills? What makes sense to you?” He then sat back down and huffed, going silent.

            I did not know what made sense to me, nor did I know what to think. What was “it”, and just what was Malachy’s relationship with Mortensen? For all I knew, everything the man had just said was a lie. Still, I could not ignore the feeling of sympathy welling up inside me.

            “Mr. Delacroix…” I spoke gently. “Let me help you. I do not wish to be your enemy.”

* * *

 

            On April 9th, Delacroix took me down into the sewers. It stunk to high heaven down there, obviously. He took me into a little room underground, where he again tied me to a chair. He was happier than usual.

            “Why are you so happy?” I questioned. “You’re about to see Mortensen, and I guarantee you that he’s furious by now.”

            “Everything will work out,” He assured me, “you’ll see.”

            “You told me yourself that someone was going to die.” I pointed out.

            “I know that Elliot won’t shoot me. So, I’ve got a little plan. As you said, no one needs to die.”

            I was somewhat relieved that he now appeared to be thinking somewhat rationally, but inwardly, I worried about what his plan was.

            It took a few hours before we heard someone approaching, at which point Malachy seemed to go back to his dark, cocky self. He stood in front of me, but did not block my view of the entrance, so I could almost clearly see Mortensen when he entered. The detective looked worn out and incredibly stressed, and the bags under his eyes were worse, as though he hadn’t slept since my kidnapping. He glared directly at Malachy with hatred apparent in his eyes and snarling mouth.

            “Wow, Mortensen, I’m impressed!” Malachy clapped a little bit. “It only took you four hours to find us!”

            “What have you done to Cheshire?!” Mortensen demanded in a deep bark. He seemed on the verge of manslaughter, and honestly, I was a tad frightened of him for some reason.

            “Pretty much nothing yet, to be honest.” Malachy told him, being honest. “I mean, I hit him once or twice, but he is _surprisingly_ obedient when he’s got a gun to his head.”

            “You bastard!” The detective yelled.

            “So, is it finally time for round two, Mortensen?” Malachy asked. He slowly reached for the pocket of his coat.

            “Yes, I suppose it is.” Mortensen snarled, his hands firmly at his sides. He did not sound like himself, and I swear that his eyes seemed darker than normal. “This time, however, only one of us will leave here alive.”

            I could almost hear the smile in Malachy’s tone. “That’s the idea. Come on now, let’s stop delaying and get right to it!” From his pocket, he drew a knife. Then, he rushed forward. Mortensen pulled out his gun, but did not avoid Malachy, which led to a scuffle. I watched uneasily, worried for both men. Malachy, to my surprise, did not actually seem to be out for blood, as he only swiped when he knew Mortensen would try to shoot him otherwise. Soon, the man caught Mortensen’s wrists, pushing them up and holding them there. He began to push backwards, but Mortensen stood his ground, causing him to lean back as Malachy leaned in. There was a dominant look on Malachy’s face. Mortensen, meanwhile, looked helpless, but… what were his eyes saying? Something didn’t click. There arose a tension that I could feel, and I again wondered about their relationship.

            “ _Elliot Mortensen loved me._ ” Malachy’s words resounded in my head. I began to put the pieces together, but was not able to get a clear image out of it.

            “Come on, Mortensen.” Malachy egged, “Get angry.”

            “What is it you want? _Me?_ ” Mortensen asked, struggling to push Malachy back. “You can have _me!_ ” He shouted. “Just let Cheshire go…!”

            “Don’t _say_ shit like that!” I shouted. I watched as Malachy smacked Mortensen across the face, then tightly wrapped his hands around the detective’s throat. Mortensen did not do very much to resist, to my confusion.

            “I wonder…” Malachy began curiously. “Should I do the same thing to him that I did to Emilie?”

            Mortensen suddenly threw Malachy back, making the man laugh.

            “There we go!” He cheered. “Let your hatred consume you…” As he drew his own gun from his back, he announced darkly: “You and I are more alike than you want to believe, Mortensen.”

            I shut my eyes tightly at the sound of two gunshots. The reverb in the small room caused a ringing in my ears, and I could only feel the vibrations of a body hitting the floor. I did not want to open my eyes, but I forced myself to.

            Malachy lay on the ground in front of me. I did not need to look down to know that he was likely dead. Instead, I turned my shocked gaze to Mortensen. He had not lowered his aim, and he stared down at Malachy with wide eyes. There was a bullet hole in the wall a foot or so to his left. Malachy had never intended to kill him, but had in return been expecting Mortensen not to kill him. Mortensen must have realized this as well, given the distraught look on his face: it was hard to tell, but I could have sworn that I saw a tear run down his cheek.

            It was Mortensen’s expression, one of pure devastation, that allowed me to finally realize what his relationship with Malachy had been. The most likely explanation to me was that Mortensen had in fact loved Malachy, to the extent that he had an affair with him in a deep betrayal of his sacred vow with his wife. When he realized that his wife could awaken and discover his unforgivable betrayal, he chose to put her out of her misery instead. But, then, Mortensen had just murdered his presumed former lover, so the theory obviously had a hole somewhere… right?

            Mortensen shook himself from his trauma and rushed over to me. I could not stop myself from flinching, but he didn’t seem to notice.  
            “Cheshire, are you alright?” He asked as he began to untie me.

            “I…” Emotionally, I was unsure about what the answer was. The needless death of Mattieu Delacroix and the realization of Mortensen’s possible history of being unfaithful to an extreme made my head spin. I felt uncertain of everything, but I soon managed an answer. “I’m going to be fine, but… You just… killed him there… without a second thought…!”

            “I had to.” Mortensen told me. “I should’ve done it a long time ago. Come on, let’s get back to someplace safe.”

            I’ll admit, I was no longer sure if such a place could be found within Mortensen’s vicinity.


	19. Chapter 19

            I sat on Mortensen’s couch, beside the detective. We were both silent, myself in shock, and Mortensen in what I assumed to be desolation. Mortensen had called Callahan to report of Mattieu Delacroix’s death, calling it self-defence, which I guess it was… sort of, anyway. I thought about Delacroix, and how he hadn’t intended to kill Mortensen. Had he known that he would die? I assumed not, since he appeared certain that Mortensen wouldn’t shoot him, yet… he did. I shook it off to the best of my ability and looked at Mortensen out of the corner of my eyes. I noticed that his leg was bobbing up and down, just like Delacroix’s. Had he picked up the behaviour from him? I could not say for certain.

            “Mortensen,” I began, not able to stand the silence anymore, “I told you not to listen to Malachy! He could’ve killed you there…!” If he’d chosen to. However, I kept my knowledge of the situation to myself.

            “What, so I was supposed to let you die just so I could live?” Mortensen replied brusquely. “I’m sad to say that’s not entirely like me, Cheshire.”

            “I’m not saying it’s what I expected you to do.” I responded, lowering my head somewhat. “I knew that you’d come save me. I just wasn’t sure if you’d survive the process.”

            Mortensen scoffed and fidgeted in annoyance. “Thanks for having faith in me.” He growled, his voice laced with sarcasm. I had to remember that he was hurting, as well. He and Malachy had, whether he wanted to admit it or not, been close.

            “I didn’t—” I cut off my biting tone and began to speak softer. “I didn’t mean it like that. Malachy was just… dangerous.” I averted my eyes from him entirely. “I still can’t believe you killed him, though…” A poor choice of words on my part, for that statement set Mortensen off.

            “What did you expect me to do? Arrest him?” He snapped. “Let him walk free? I _had_ to kill him, otherwise he would’ve stopped at _nothing_ to return!”

            “Well, I suppose…” I wanted to change the subject to help ease both my heart and Mortensen’s. Then, I noticed something was missing: Mortensen’s wedding band. “Say.”

            “What?” Mortensen asked, rubbing his forehead as if he had a headache. I had almost forgotten how tired he looked.

            “That wedding band of yours… Just how long exactly have you had it off?”

            Mortensen wriggled somewhat in discomfort. “Eh, four months or so…” He told me.

            “Blimey… You’d think I would’ve noticed earlier…” I turned away, and we both stared at the television, though it was off. “Good for you, Mortensen.” I said.

            There was a long, awkward pause. Even though I really did want to dismiss the subject entirely, I needed closure. Could I be right? I looked at Mortensen. His eyes had sunk down to the floor, which he stared at in deep sadness. He looked crushed, which only added more fuel to my stubborn fire. I sighed before I began to speak, being careful about my wording.  
            “Mortensen? If you don’t mind me asking… What exactly was your relationship with Malachy?”

            Mortensen gave me a strange look that I could only describe as aggressive heartache. “What the fuck are you asking that for? I hated him. He’s a fucking asshole.”

            I shook my head. “I don’t think you did hate him.”

            He seemed to shrink under my gaze, now seeming both embarrassed and afraid.

            “He told me something…”

            “Sh—shut up!” Mortensen waved his hand in front of his face dismissively. “Just be quiet!”

            I would not let up. “He loved you, you know?”

            Mortensen covered his face suddenly, shaking his head frantically. “Shut up,” He said in a broken voice, “Shut up!”

            “Mortensen—”

            “How _dare_ you say that he ‘loved’ me? He ruined my fucking life! He tricked me, manipulated me, and took my fucking wife from me!” He shouted at me, possibly on the verge of tears. “I was such a fucking idiot for trusting him, but I did because of his goddamned silver tongue!” He lowered his head in shame, his shoulders trembling. I felt bad for bringing the subject up now, since I hadn’t really expected him to be so broken up about it.  
            “The times I had with him are not my proudest moments…” He finally mumbled. “I wish I could forget them. But then I think about Emilie, and…” He sobbed. _Sobbed._ I had brought this man to tears. “… and I think about what I did to her. If she woke up, she would have been destroyed. She already didn’t trust men. Never probably wanted to be too close to me to begin with. We never slept in the same bed, we never went beyond light kisses… If she found out what I’d done, with not only another man, but the fuckin’ guy that _put_ her in a coma to begin with, she would have been absolutely devastated. I didn’t want that to happen to her…!” He put his hands over his eyes. “Knowing what I know now, if I could turn back time and do it all over again, I would…!”

            My very being ached. I could feel Mortensen’s sorrow: I had experienced something similar before. I moved in closer to him, putting my hand on his back gently. “I know you would…” I told him softly. “I know…” He leaned against me, crying now, and I stroked his hair like I used to for Oliver. Malachy was right about one thing: Mortensen was a fallen angel. However, God be damned if he wasn’t trying his best to repent for his former sins.

* * *

 

            “Mortensen!” Callahan barked at the detective when we arrived at the scene of a case, Pyreford Bus Station in Newark, in early June. He looked at me uneasily; I had not seen Callahan angry before, so I had to assume it was a rare occurrence. Mortensen and I approached him as we normally would, but we both attempted to keep some distance.

            “What’s the case, Callahan?” Mortensen casually asked the furious Inspector General, who stood beside his brother, who was silent as usual.

            “Oh, it’s not the case that’s got me upset.” Callahan said, crossing his arms.

            “Then what is it?” Mortensen questioned.

            Callahan gestured with his thumb to his far left. “It’s that Latino punk over there!”

            I looked over, and my bloody heart nearly gave up pumping. It was the Mexican police officer that had been at the Autumnwolf Incident: Officer Feliz Florence of Minnesota State Police. He leaned against the wall near a newspaper stand, looking over at Callahan every so often. He looked annoyed as well. Still I tried to play it off as though everything was fine: he either hadn’t seen me yet, or no longer recognized me.  
            “What about him?” I asked, keeping my tone stable.

            “This is _our_ case.” Callahan snarled. “Bellamy gave it to _us!_ And now, here comes this guy saying ‘his boss assigned it to him as well’!”

            Florence stepped forward from the wall and began shouting at Callahan from there. “Look, señor. It is not _my_ fault I’m here! My boss is an absolute dick! He probably already _knew_ that somebody else was assigned to this case, and decided to give it to me anyway!”

            “Hey!” Mortensen shouted. “Both of you, stop acting like children!”

            A huge shouting match ensued. I could not make out the specific words of any three of them, as they were all screaming over each other. I took a long moment to just stare at them. Funny how being told to stop acting like children caused them _all_ to begin acting like children. The taller Callahan and I looked at each other briefly, both confused as to just what exactly happened, as the shouting had begun so suddenly. I scratched my head awkwardly, waiting for one of them to notice my judging stare, but it was no good: they were too busy shouting at each other.

            I stepped in between Callahan and Mortensen, who looked about ready to get into a match of fisticuffs, and yelled, “Now that’s quite enough of that, gentlemen!” This caused them all to fall silent. Florence finally saw me, but I did not care to read his reaction.  
            “We’ve got a case here.” I began in a nagging way. “Whether we like it or not, we have to work together. So can we put our differences aside for _at least_ an hour?!”

            Mortensen was the first to respond with a small sigh. “Cheshire’s right. We have work to do. What’s the case?”

            Callahan appeared to still be upset, but he gave it… reluctantly. “Apparently, this station is…” He held up his hands, doing a sarcastic gesture that suggested some sort of childish spook was awaiting us, and said, “‘ _cursed_ ’”.

            Mortensen let out an even deeper sigh. “Well,” He said, feigning optimism, “at least now I know that Bellamy was definitely the one to assign this case…”

            “We want you to find evidence,” Callahan began, “any sort of evidence, to prove that it’s not a ghost here, but some sort of… I dunno. Homeless person, maybe.”

            “Will do, I guess…” Mortensen replied, though he didn’t seem very confident in the case due to its silly nature.

            “This case,” Callahan admit, “is ridiculous.”

            “Nothing will ever be as ridiculous as the case with the ferret.”

            Callahan began to laugh at Mortensen’s statement, but I was left confused.

            “Err… Beg pardon?” I asked.

            “It’s nothing, Cheshire.” Mortensen told me. “I’d never expect you to understand.”

            I was expecting Mortensen to start exploring, but I was surprised when he gestured for me to follow him over to Florence. I was nervous about doing so, and I hesitated. He knew my history, whether he had figured out I had been the culprit of the cold Autumnwolf case or not. I did not want my past to become clear to Mortensen. I could not make it clear that I knew Florence, though, so I hesitantly gave in, and we approached the officer.

            “Who are you, anyway?” Mortensen asked him.

            Florence shook Mortensen’s hand with his own left hand, on which he wore a white fingerless glove and a silver ring that had a light blue gem on it. He had to look up at Mortensen and I, since he only stood at around 5’7”.  
            “Feliz Florence.” He said. “I’m a cop.”

            Mortensen tilted his head a bit. “Feliz Florence… I swear I’ve heard that name somewhere before…”

            It was Florence’s turn to be nervous, it seemed, for he froze up. “Probably not…” He mumbled, feigning a smile. I began to wonder what Florence had been up to since I first encountered him almost seven years prior. Did he now have a past that he held in regret? He seemed to be nervous of something.

            “Whatever, it doesn’t matter.” Mortensen assured him. “Do you want to join us inside? You’ll need something to put into your report, I figure.”

            Florence looked past Mortensen at Callahan, who was having a quiet conversation with his brother. “Uh, but, doesn’t he not want me to…?” He trailed off, half-pointing at the shorter Callahan twin.

            “I’m not him. By the way, I’m Detective Elliot Mortensen, and this is my partner, Dr. Che—”

            “Er, _Chester!_ ” I blurted. I did not want Florence, if he did not recognize me, to know who I was. “Yes, that’s right…” I stepped forward nervously to shake his hand. “D—… D—Dr. Chester here. At your service.”

            “Uh…” Florence shook my hand slowly, obviously suspicious. Damn. Why was I so terrible at acting under pressure? “Yeah, I’ll… I’ll join you two.” He shrugged. “Why not?”

            Mortensen and Florence took a moment to discuss something. Meanwhile, I brought my attention to the newspaper stand. The newspaper on display, an issue of The Star-Ledger, was dated August 25th, 2019. The main headline showed a picture of Ruler Eternal walking down a street in New Providence, and it read “BEWARE OF RULER ETERNAL”. To the left of the main headline was a picture of Detective Mortensen. The headline for him read, simply, “French Detective sent in to remove ‘Ruler Eternal’ threat”. I averted my eyes from the newspaper, remembering that I had once been in an issue of Gloucestershire Echo in late 2014. I was not particularly fond of newspapers, because I was sure that there were several that covered the Autumnwolf Incident. I knew that as a police officer, those were probably resources that Mortensen could access if he needed. As such, I wished that the media had not covered the incident at all.

            “C’mon,” Mortensen said to me as he and Florence walked past me to enter the station, “Let’s go inside already.”

            The three of us entered the station. The large room we entered had pale light lime-coloured walls. Some of its wallpaper was peeling. The floor was black and brown tiles. There were desks, as if the lobby was used as a meeting room of some sort. Some of the chairs were knocked over, and there was a whiteboard across the room from us. Near to it was a sink and a bookcase. To our left, there was a couch, which Mortensen examined. Florence went to the sink, which we could hear dripping, and I, not knowing where else to go, went to the small, empty bookcase. There were spiders crawling around, and I found myself fascinated by them. They had made an intriguing web. I crouched down to examine it. I mean, I certainly did not want the spiders on me, but I felt the urge to extend my finger, just to see if they would crawl up onto my glove.

            “Ich,” I heard, which made me look back to see Florence looking at the insects from over my shoulder. “I simply cannot stand bugs.” He told me.

            “This seat is warm.” Mortensen said from the other side of the lobby.

            “Someone’s been here recently.” I offered my opinion, and Mortensen nodded.

            “Seems likely. Let’s check the garage.”

            With Mortensen and Florence leading the way, we stepped into the garage. It was dark in there even with the garage door open, probably because it was dark outside.

            “Wait a second…” Florence said suddenly, holding his hand up to make me stop behind him. “Does anyone else hear that?”

            “Hear what?” Mortensen asked. We then all saw something on the other side of the room move and heard what sounded like screeching. All three of us let out a scream of terror and started throwing things until the screeching stopped. When we approached afterwards and discovered that our to-be killer was just a rat, we all silently agreed that it was not our proudest moment, and agreed to never speak of it again.

            “Hey,” I heard Mortensen say suddenly. I looked over at him, then at what he was staring at.

            On the wall was a black smudge. It almost appeared to be trying to spell out something, but it was nearly unreadable. Florence and I approached, looking at it closer. I felt uneasy.

            “That’s disgusting,” Florence quipped.

            I said, “I think we should go.”

            “Yeah.” Florence agreed, and we turned to leave. When I realized that Mortensen wasn’t following, I stopped and turned around.

            “Mortensen?” I called. “Are you coming?”

            Mortensen slowly turned his head to look at me. Had he figured out what the random strokes said? “A cipher…” I thought I heard him mumble.

            “What’s that?” I asked.

            Mortensen shook his head and began walking toward us. “It’s nothing. Let’s skedaddle.”

            I took one last glance at the smudge. Was it a cipher? If it was, I unfortunately lacked the ability to read ciphers, so I ignored it and followed them outside, back to Mortensen’s car.

            “I presume you guys found your evidence?” Callahan asked as Mortensen pulled out his keys.

            “Yeah, it appears someone lives here.” Mortensen replied flippantly. He seemed either apathetic, or silently eager to get the hell out of Dodge.

            “We also may or may not have murdered their pet rat.” Florence told him.

            Callahan furrowed his brow, trying not to laugh. “I was wondering what all that commotion was about…”

            Florence looked back up at Mortensen and I, smiling a little bit. “Well, I guess I’ll just see you two around sometime, eh?”

            “Perhaps.” Mortensen told him. “Until next time, Florence.”

            “Until the next time!” Florence did a stylish bow. “Adiós,” He said in a friendly but melodramatic manner, “mi amigos.”

            Mortensen and I got into the car and began to drive away. Mortensen looked almost afraid. His hands were shaking somewhat as he tightly gripped the steering wheel.

            “Mortensen?” I asked him gingerly. “Are you alright?”

            “I’m fucked.” He said.

            “What do you mean?”

            “I’m following a trail that I don’t want to follow. I really hope Simon lets that case rest.”

            I did not bother to ask him to explain, because I was sure that he would not become any less cryptic. Instead, I told him, “It’ll be alright.”

            “We were being watched.”

            “We weren’t, Mortensen. You’re just being paranoid.”

* * *

 

            It was August 16th. Having stayed the night at Mortensen’s home, I had left early in the morning, before he woke up, and began walking my way to Summit. It was a long walk, but I got to see some interesting sights along the way. The scenery was quite nice, though not many people dared to wander the streets anymore since Ruler Eternal’s reign of terror. It wasn’t post-apocalyptic, mind you. The streets were just a tad emptier than they should have been.

            Still, I walked along, with my hands in the pockets of my jeans, though my purple zip-up sweater and black trenchcoat had pockets that were more easily accessible by my hands. I made my way to 81 Prospect Street, a little house tucked in between two larger buildings. It was not a house in its best condition, what with an extended lawn, but I walked up onto the porch and knocked on the front door. The door swung open with my knock, so I welcomed myself inside.

            The house smelled of death, though the smell was half-masked by cinnamon-scented candles on floor nearby. There was a chair propped behind a couch, which had nothing in front of it other than a wall. I stepped further inside and looked to my right. There stood another chair, upon which sat Ruler Eternal, who clasped his hands in pleasure.

            “Ah, Dr. Cheshire!” He announced in glee. “Just the man I wanted to see! Come in, take a seat.”

            I obeyed him. It was time to talk, like gentlemen.


	20. Chapter 20

            I took my seat across the room from Ruler Eternal, who smiled at me rather maliciously. He had invited me to talk with him that morning, asking to speak to me alone. Considering he somehow knew my history, I had no choice but to give in to his request. I did not want to in any way make him feel he should blackmail me. Still, I felt there was an ulterior motive, and already my head hurt.

            “For the record,” I began telling him, “I’m not here to make friends with you, Patefield.”

            Ruler Eternal threw his head back and scoffed. “I know that. I’m not stupid, you know?” He then resumed smirking at me. “However, I also know that you’re not going to tell that Frenchie fucker how to find me.”

            Realizing he was referring to Detective Mortensen, who at this time was likely still asleep, I replied, “Your presumption is absolutely correct.”

            “Why not?” He proceeded to ask, almost suspicious. “It’d be really easy to get me right where he wants me…”

            I shook my head. “Come now, we both know you’d kill him before he so much as even laid a finger on you.”

            “Aw,” Patefield whined sarcastically, “you’ve got me pegged.” After a pause to think, he frowned. “But it’s not like you didn’t almost do the exact same thing.”

            I took a moment to glare at the man sitting before me. Just what was he trying to say? I thought about what had run through my mind during my last encounter with Ruler Eternal: my only thought had been to protect Mortensen at all costs… wasn’t it?

            “You totally lost your fuckin’ marbles.” Patefield snickered. “It was kind of fun to watch. You weren’t listening to a _word_ he said! If you had turned on him, and he said, ‘Stop, don’t—’”

            “I would never have turned on him.” I blurted.

            “How can you be so certain of that, Cheshy?” He had a point: I wasn’t sure if my words were the whole truth. “You and I both know that the Eclipse Poison—” Narrowing his eyes with madness and clutching the arm rests of his chair, he lurched forward to shout: “—makes you do CRAZY FUCKING THINGS.”

            “Turning on Mortensen was never an option.” I said, but just which one of us was I trying to convince?

            Ruler Eternal grinned. “But you can’t deny that it crossed your mind at least once. You know… Imagining ripping him apart with your bare hands, feeling the power of having—” Something about his melodically-spoken words resonated with a part of me deep inside myself, and I suddenly felt the need to shut him up.

            “ _Silence, Patefield!_ ” I barked. “ _Yes_ , the thought may have crossed my mind, for certain. But not once did I allow myself to _act_ on it _at all._ ”

            The dark-purple haired man with blond tips leaned back and laughed. “Even being around me is causing you to feel it.” He mocked. I figured that he was referring to Eclipse Poison (or Eclipse Potion, either one), so I played ball.

            “It’s because you’ve replaced your own blood with the Eclipse Poison… I suppose that the Potion and the Poison don’t really mix all that well together…” I told him. His lazy light blue eyes showed how much I had piqued his interest, as he again sat upright.

            “Potion?” He pondered. “So, you _are_ the one from the legend! How old does that make you, though?!” He leaned a bit closer. “Does Frenchie know?”

            “I really don’t know, and no.” I answered both questions honestly, seeing no real reason to lie to Patefield, regardless of his madness. “I couldn’t tell Mortensen: he’d assume me insane if I ever brought any of it up.” I felt bad about continuing to keep the truth from Mortensen, but I ignored my emotions.

            “Well, maybe you are.” Patefield said earnestly, calling me crazy. I did not take offence, for I felt that perhaps he was right in some ways. I knew that he probably had a reason of his own for bringing me to him, but I had a question that I needed to ask, and that was the only true reason that I had obliged to his request.

            “Patefield, the reason I’ve come here today is…” I gave him a serious look and asked, “Just why on Earth exactly did you have the Eclipse Poison made?”

            “Isn’t it obvious?” He responded with a question of his own. “You’ve been alive since, what, the late nineteenth century?” An insane smirk spread across his gaunt, stubble-coated face. “ _I want to be eternal as well._ ”

            I decided to hit him with my own honest opinion. “Well, you certainly did an impressive job recreating the formula,” I praised him in a morose manner, continuing with, “however, I don’t believe it shall work the same way that mine did.”

            “And why is that, Doctor?” He crossed his leg over his other leg and clasped his hands on his lap, leaning closer to add further sarcasm to his question. He clearly did not believe me… yet.

            “Eclipse Poison,” I began with confidence, “is missing one thing that Eclipse Potion had… Belsease.” Already, the shock in Patefield’s eyes was almost palpable. “The plant’s long since gone extinct. I believe it’s what gave me eternal life.” There was a long pause, for it seemed that Ruler Eternal had been left speechless by my revelation. All of his work had been for naught. I had to wonder what he was trying to use as a substitute for the cursed Alice blue plant that I had weaned myself onto.  
            “And that, good sir,” I concluded, realizing that Patefield had no intent to speak, “is why exactly your creation will forever be known as nothing more than a poison, whereas mine shall be known as the _true_ potion.”          

            “I see.” Patefield muttered, defeat crystal clear in his voice.

            It was my turn to lean forward. He seemed almost threatened by this gesture I had intended to make read as kindness. I honestly did want him to find help. “So… with all this in mind… Will you cease taking this terrible concoction?”

            Patefield did not reply at first. He looked to the floor, as if looking for an answer there. I saw a flicker on genuine rationality in his eyes for a moment, but almost as quickly as he snapped from his madness, the delusion look reappeared in his eyes. He would not be so easily defeated, and I realized that it was very probably that helping him was a lost cause.  
            “No.” He finally said.

            I stood up, and he watched me with his glowing eyes as I headed wordlessly for the front door. If he did not want help, I would be of no further use to him. I opened the door, about to leave, but I stopped myself, taking one last look at Ruler Eternal.  
            “You’re a remarkably stubborn man, Patefield.” I told him. “Who knows, though: that might just save your life someday.”

* * *

 

            When I returned to Mortensen’s house, I took a moment to compose myself before opening the door. I was still a little bit off from talking with Patefield: I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not quite as it seemed. I refused to give in to my own paranoia, however, and opened the door.

            “Hey, Cheshire,” welcomed Mortensen, who was sitting on the couch. He was wearing a green dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and I had to admit that I had never seen the shirt before. I began to wonder if it was new. Then, I argued with myself that it couldn’t have been new, as Mortensen certainly did not seem the type to go clothes shopping without being forced.

            “Hello…” I replied, sincerely hoping that the detective would not ask where I had gone.

            “Come on.” He said, and pat the cushion beside him. “Sit down.”

            Something was not right. Mortensen seemed… too welcoming. Flustered, even. Still, I sighed and gave in, sitting beside him. I brought my attention to the television, which was turned to white noise. I glanced at Mortensen: he appeared to be watching this intently.

            Pushing back my concern for Mortensen’s general wellbeing, I asked, “Mortensen? Are you just watching the white noise of the telly?”

            “It helps me think…” He told me, having to tear his brown eyes away from the grey specks on the screen to look in my direction. “Cheshire, I uh… I have to talk to you.”

            Suddenly, I felt very nervous. There was that tension in the air again… “About what…?”

            Mortensen turned his gaze to my legs, though I assumed he had not meant anything by it. “Just… _things._ Do you want some cocoa?”

            “Sure…” I replied. The detective embraced the opportunity to leave the room, disappearing past the dividing wall to prepare the cocoa in the kitchen. I brought my hand up to the collar of my indigo sweater and pulled it open somewhat. My body was burning up. Just what did he want to ask me?

            Before I knew it, Mortensen returned to the living room. He held a mug of cocoa in one hand, and a plate of something in the other. He first handed me the mug, which I ended up having to place on the end table, as he then handed me the plate. On the plate were what looked like cookies. They were not perfectly round, most of them, but that was probably to be expected. They lacked icing, as well, but the smelled absolutely delicious. I placed the plate on my lap, needing a drink before I would dare put anything dry in my mouth, as Mortensen took his seat beside me once more. I picked up the blue mug of cocoa and took a moderately-sized gulp; the liquid was not hot enough to scald my throat, thankfully.

            “Goddamn.” I said after swallowing. “You make the most amazing hot cocoa.” I then turned my eyes to the plate of cookies on my lap. “What are these little biscuit things?”

            Mortensen scratched the back of his head a bit and chuckled nervously. “Uh, they’re… th—they’re sugar cookies… I’ve, um… never made them before, so—”

            “Wait.” I blurted. “You bake?” The prospect of Elliot Mortensen being able to bake had not ever crossed my mind, for some reason, possibly because I felt that was a girlish hobby.

            Mortensen looked away, as if embarrassed to reveal his hidden skill. “Used to, in high school… Anyway.”

            “No no! You made these?” I asked. “If you haven’t baked anything in a while, why did you suddenly make sugar cookies?”

            Mortensen shrugged awkwardly, not saying anything in response, so I picked up one of the cookies. They were quite light, though I could not feel the texture through my gloves. I had no actual reason to distrust Mortensen, so I stuck half of the biscuit into my mouth and bit down. The cookie was very sweet, and vaguely buttery. I had never eaten sugar cookies before, but this was a good start.

            “I think maybe I have added too much sugar…?” Mortensen spoke timidly. “I mean, the recipe did seem to call for _way_ too much…”

            “Mortensen,” I began in a light-hearted scold, “listen to yourself. That’s absolute drivel. These things are truly amazing.” I felt like what Mortensen gave me on the plate would not be enough to tide me over, suddenly overcome with a greed for the sweet, sugary biscuits. “So how many of them _did_ you make?”

            “Heh heh, too many…” He seemed flustered again. “Can I talk now? I’ve been sitting here psyching myself up, and… now we’re just talking about my baking, so…”

            I took a look at the detective. “Mortensen, look at yourself. Your face is completely flushed. What is it you needed to talk to me about, exactly?”

            Mortensen cleared his throat, fidgeting somewhat. “Well… It’s just, I’ve been thinking, and… I mean, I’ve got some money saved up, and I was wondering…”

            “Mortensen. You don’t have to be nervous, you know that, right?”

            The detective let out an uneasy sigh. “Fine, fine, fine. Just don’t get the wrong idea…” He took a deep breath, and said: “I—I was thinking that I could buy another bed, and you could maybe just live here instead of going back and forth.”

            I took a moment to just stare at the detective’s nervous profile, digesting what he was saying. “Mortensen, you… You want me to live here? With you?”

            He waved his hand dismissively, a gesture I had seen before. “I—I’m not saying you have to or anything. I’m just… It’s just that I think we both live alone, and… and you always crash here anyway so I figured—”

            I turned my head from Mortensen and casually responded, “Why, certainly. I’d love to live here.”

            “—that maybe—…” It took Mortensen a moment to realize that I had already answered his ramblings. “Wait. You’re… You’re okay with it.”

            “You’ve got a good point there, Mortensen.” I explained. “The only real reason I ever went to Southfield was so that I wasn’t a bother to you. But if you really want me to live here, with you… Well then, I shall.”

            Mortensen laughed a bit. “A bother to me? You? _Ha!_ Cheshire, sometimes I forget you’re even here. Sometimes I ever forget when you’re _not_ here.”

            “So then, it’s all settled.” I said, then turned to look at Mortensen. Our eyes met, but I ignored the tension that came with eye contact to ask, “This wouldn’t really change much between us, now, would it?”

            “I can’t imagine that it would.” Mortensen responded.

            I looked away again and smiled. “I don’t see any problem with this, then.” I teased, “So long as you keep baking for me. These treats are so good, you know.” I giggled a bit after my mocking, which made a genuine smile flood Mortensen’s face, though he tried to hide it by lowering his head.

            “Heh, I’m not going to promise that.” He told me.

* * *

 

            Mortensen and I had spent the remainder of the day finding a fix to the bed problem, and by the end of the night, he was ready for me to stay. It was not as though I got mail or anything at my residence in Southfield, so I decided it would be fine to just not return until the following day once more to collect what little I had there that I would need.

            The bed was placed in the same room as Mortensen’s though on the other side of the room. It was a single bed, and it had white sheets, not unlike Mortensen’s. We went to sleep around 10:30 at night, which was early for Mortensen’s standards, but he did seem rather tired, so I did not feel worried.

            That was, I did not feel worried until I was awoken at some time after midnight by the sound of the bedroom door closing. I grumbled something and sat up, looking around the room.  
            “Mm… M—Mortensen…?” The detective was nowhere to be seen. The nightlight on his clock was still on, as it always was. “Where…?”

            I stood up from my bed and yawned, trying to take a better look around the room. No, Detective Mortensen had definitely left the room. Just to make sure, as I was groggy, I approached his bed, only to suddenly feel the need to pull my arms close to my chest. Right beside the detective’s bed, it was so cold. I felt like I was invading something’s personal space, as well, which is what made me step back, only to find warmth again. Something reminded me of Malachy’s words.

            “ _There’s something about Elliot that you need to know, Cheshire. Something’s after him. It wants him._ ” He had warned me. “ _Don’t get involved with his demons._ ”

            I shook his warning off, ignoring my instincts. Though something was telling me that he had not been exaggerating, that something evil was in the room with me and standing beside Mortensen’s bed, such an idea was simply was not possible, in the same way that it was impossible for Mortensen to actually be a literal fallen angel. I opened the bedroom door and proceeded to head downstairs. As I was descending, I looked up and froze.

            Elliot Mortensen stood, wearing the blue robe he had gone to sleep in, facing the front door, standing beside the dividing wall. He had not heard me, I had to presume, or else something was keeping his attention off of me. I suddenly had a really bad feeling. I carefully, quietly, continued stepping down the stairs. Mortensen wobbled a little bit on his legs, and I saw him take an unsteady step forward. I approached him with caution, slowly extending my arm. I tapped his shoulder, but he did not respond to my touch.

            “Mortensen?” I asked, unable to mask the slight fear in my voice. The man did not react. “Err… Mortensen, can you hear me?”

            Mortensen finally gave me a sign of acknowledgement with a very light grumble. It almost sounded like he was still asleep.

            Gently, I said, “Hey, look at me now… Focus your gaze in _my_ direction.”

            The detective turned to face me, his eyes half closed. The distant look in his eyes did nothing to ease my mind.

            “Are you awake?” I questioned.

            “ _What…?_ ” Mortensen almost hummed. Yes, he certainly sounded like he was talking in his sleep.

            I held up seven fingers. “Mortensen, how many fingers am I holding up?”

            I was confused for a moment when Mortensen held up one finger, placing it blindly in front of his mouth. “ _Ssh._ ” He hissed. “ _You hear that…?_ ” He held a tired, limp hand up in the general vicinity of his left ear.

            “Hear what?” I asked.

            Suddenly, Mortensen seemed to perk up. He lowered his hands. “Huh?”

            “Mortensen?”

            “What?” Mortensen looked at his surroundings. Then, confused, he asked, “How… How’d we get downstairs?”

            I was not sure how to begin. “Um… Well, you got up out of bed and left the bedroom, so I followed you down here…” I tilted me head a bit in concern. “Is everything alright, Mortensen?”

            Mortensen flushed a bit and averted his eyes. “Oh, geez… I just kind of figured I’d stopped, heh heh…”

            I raised a brow. “Stopped what?”

            “Sleepwalking.” He answered, and things began to click. “I guess I probably should’ve explained earlier… See, it’s just that I wake up a lot during the night, and some nights I get up and wander.” He shrugged. “I just haven’t done that last part in a while… Not that I can recall.”

            “You don’t remember walking down here, then?”

            Mortensen shook his head. “No, I don’t. All I remember is going to sleep, and then you were asking me something.”

            “You told me you were hearing something.” I explained.

            Suddenly, Mortensen seemed mortified. He stared at me with fear in his eyes, and stammered, “Eh? Really?”

            I could not find a logical explanation for Mortensen’s terror, so I ignored it. “I take it you don’t remember what it was, then… That’s a shame.”

            Mortensen was clearly still nervous, but he seemed a bit comforted that I was willing to drop the subject. “Well… I—it was probably nothing. We should go back to sleep now.”

            I was tired, so I gave in without a fight. “I suppose you’re right… You’re not going to sleepwalk again, though, are you?”

            “Tonight?” Mortensen asked, feigning a smile to disguise his inner panic. “I doubt it.”


	21. Chapter 21

            By September, Detective Mortensen had done an awful lot of sleepwalking. He got up and wandered at least every other night. Sometimes I would even awake during the night to discover him sitting upright, staring at nothing, once in my direction. On those nights, I tended to sleep with one eye open. Over the month, Mortensen had become slowly more aware that his resurfaced unconscious habit was affecting my sleeping, judging by the guilty look he would give me when I yawned uncontrollably in the morning. The interesting thing was that the sleepwalking seemed to be affecting Mortensen as well. Though he tried to keep it subtle, and subtle it was, I could still tell that he, too, seemed somewhat fatigued.

            It was noon on the 15th when Mortensen, along with something to eat for lunch, presented me with a mug of coffee.

            “Mortensen,” I said groggily but graciously, “Thank you kindly, but you know I do not drink coffee.”

            “I pumped it full of sugar and creamer. It’ll help you wake up.” Mortensen convinced me. I glanced into the blue mug; the liquid was a creamy light brown colour, proving that Mortensen’s words were true. Reluctantly, I took the cup, and Mortensen sat beside me.

            Eating sandwiches, which required no utensils, while sitting on a couch and watching a news broadcast, trying to ignore the person beside me so as to not raise any awkwardness, was almost the exact opposite of my Victorian ideal. Honestly, I was still yearning to sit at the table in the kitchen, despite the fact that Mortensen had neglected to purchase dining chairs. Perhaps one day I would force him to have a formal dinner with me. With dimmed lighting and candles. The moment that last thought crossed my mind, I forced myself to drop the thought for the time being, and began to focus instead on the television.

            Mortensen ate beside me. I had noticed that he tended to eat quicker when he thought he was alone and would sometimes stop eating, his face flushed, if I would look at him for too long while he chewed, as though he was shy about being watched while he ate. Fortunately for him, I understood completely, as I felt the same way. Careful not to bring attention to myself, I reached for the mug and hesitated before taking a small sip. It was far too hot for me, but it almost smelled drinkable, unlike the darker coffee that Mortensen normally drank.

            Both of us jolted a bit when the phone suddenly began to ring. Mortensen cursed lightly under his breath and placed his plate on the end table to his left. He then stood up and headed for the phone on the computer desk, picking the phone up from its charger.

            “Hello, Detective Elliot Mortensen speaking.” He answered. I had learned that this was what Mortensen always answered with whenever he was not expecting a call; otherwise, he would just answer casually, be it with “hello” or “what is it”. The latter was confusing to me, as it seemed a bit rude, but I had not found the need to question Mortensen’s social niceties thus far. After a pause, he gave me a look that I recognized as the signal to get ready to leave the house, so I placed my plate down as well and rushed upstairs, where I had left my coat.

            When I returned downstairs, pulling on my coat as I did, I asked, “Where are we going?”

            “Pale Forest Pond.” Mortensen replied in a tone that suggested he had never before heard of the place, whilst slipping on his blazer.

            “Where?” I had never heard of Pale Forest Pond, either.

            “It’s not too far.” Mortensen answered, now throwing on his balmacaan. “Oh, nice, it looks like it might rain.” He got back on track. “It’s in Hackettstown or some shit… _Near_. _Near_ Hackettstown. Sorry.”

            As Mortensen and I were approaching his car, I looked up at the sky. The clouds were dark and the air was somewhat humid.

            “You wouldn’t happen to have an umbrella…” I murmured.

            “Pfft, no.” Mortensen scoffed light-heartedly and stepped into the driver side seat. I tore my attention from the sky and sat beside him in the passenger side seat.

* * *

 

            Thirty minutes into the drive on Interstate 78 it finally began to rain, and Mortensen turned on the windshield wipers. I was rather quiet, as driving along the highway in the pouring rain was reminding me of my last day with the members of Autumnwolf. I pinched my eyes shut as the images of my victims from that day flashed across my mind. In truth, despite my slightly-inflated ego, I hated myself. I was a monster, and I wondered for how much longer I could keep the truth hidden from Mortensen.

            The detective’s coughing brought my attention onto him. It wasn’t as bad a cough as normal, but it still seemed to be causing him marginal discomfort.

            “Are you alright?” I questioned, reaching my hand out and placing it on his upper arm without really realizing what I was doing.

            “Yeah.” Mortensen cleared his throat, and then glanced at my hand with an awkward look. He felt tense under my touch, and it took me a moment to realize that it was because we were making physical contact, something we, to my interest (as I had only just thought about it), had never really done before, except during the one time in which I had comforted him. Quickly, I drew my hand away, and we sat in silence for a long moment.

            Suddenly, I found myself thinking of Oliver Roarke. Logic had told me he was dead, but there was a feeling that had haunted me ever since I saw his grave in Catshill. My intuition kept trying to convince me to search for him, telling me that looking would not be in vain, and that he was alive. Again, I shook the urge off. Oliver Roarke was dead, and that was the end of it. There was no proof for me that he was not dead, and therefore he must have been six feet under. The silly hope refused to leave, however. Perhaps some part of me held onto it merely for comfort.

            I thought instead about Elliot Mortensen, who quietly continued driving. Elliot Mortensen, unlike Oliver Roarke, was still very much alive. However, for how much longer, I was not entirely sure. It had been a surprise to me to discover that he was born in 1968, as on January 17th he had revealed that he had just turned 53 years old; he still appeared to be in his early forties, what with his blond hair and hardly-at-all-receded hairline, which is why discovering that he was a decade older than he looked was so gobsmacking. Occasionally, I felt the desire to ask him what life was like in the 1970s, but I always resisted my curiosity, as Mortensen seemed to be under the impression that I had been born in the early or mid-1990s, which would make me more or less aware of what the 70s were like by now if that were the truth.

            I found myself worrying about the future. Mortensen had already exceeded life expectancy from my time, which was 40 years old at best, and though he seemed to be as healthy as could be at the ripe age of 53, I knew how quickly health could decline. Life expectancy nowadays could not be much higher than 70, though I did not know exactly. It felt weird and somewhat narcissistic to think I might very well outlive the detective (as it was to remember that I was actually almost four times his age), but it was a possibility I had to consider, and it terrified me. I could not explain how in around five years, I had grown so fond of a man I first considered a pathetic nuisance, yet somehow I now cared so dearly for him that I was unsure of how I would carry on living without him if he were to pass away.

            Before I knew it, twenty minutes had passed, and Mortensen stopped the car along a gravel path leading to a wooded area. Parked nearby was the car of the Callahan brothers, who both stood ahead of us. The taller one held a navy blue umbrella, though he held it more over his sibling than himself. Mortensen and I exited the car and approached the twins.

            “Hey there.” Callahan said. “I’m actually surprised you made it. Frank and I got lost, like, eighty-seven times.”

            “It’s true, we did.” The taller Callahan brother confirmed.

            Mortensen shook his head, snickering with his arms crossed. The rain had quickly begun to drench him, but he was better off than I was, since unlike mine, his coat was waterproof. “You two are still completely hopeless,” He quipped, “even after all these years.”

            Callahan shrugged. “Yeah, yeah… No need to rub it in.”

            “What are we to do here?” I asked.

            “Just, uh…” Callahan blanked. “ _You know._ ” Giving up, he mumbled, “That’s a funny question. I dunno, exactly.”

            With a sigh, Mortensen spoke again. “Let me guess… Mrs. Bellamy assigned _this_ case, too?”

            “You betcha.”

            “Figured as much.”

            “She…” Again, Callahan drew a blank, so he turned to his brother. “What the hell did she want, Frank?”

            “For Dr. Cheshire to find a plant.” He answered.

            I raised a brow. “Me? Why me?”

            “She worries Mortensen may handle it wrong.”

            “Err, she might be right on that…” Mortensen admit to me meekly. “I’m no good with plants.”

            “Alright, then…” Though the case was already quite odd, I went along with it. “What does the plant look like, exactly?”

            “She thought you would know…?” Callahan cringed a bit, realizing that Mrs. Bellamy had too much confidence in my abilities.

            “Um.” Still, the show had to go on. There had to be other leads. “Then what does it do?”

            The witty man, his beige suit turned light brown from the rain, shrugged his arms. “No idea.”

            “And just what am I supposed to do with it once I’ve found it?”

            “Not a clue.”

            I frowned, letting my eyelids droop. “Good to know.” I said, sarcasm thick in my tone.

            Mortensen scratched at his hairline with his index finger, a gesture he sometimes did when he was perplexed. “So… We’re here to just… find a plant. That’s it?”

            “I…” Though he began his sentence defensively, Callahan trailed off, realizing it was pointless. Honestly, he continued, “I guess so, yeah.”

            “What the fuck.” Mortensen said in a flat, frustrated voice.

            “If it’s any condolence,” Callahan told us reassuringly, “the case has a somewhat cool sounding name: _The Case of The Pond of Madness_.” I felt like that was a hint, but I decided that it wasn’t considering the lack of information Callahan had been given.

            Mortensen rolled his eyes. “ _Ooh_ , it’s Christmas.” His sarcasm was more palpable than mine.

            “Honestly, I’m just as confused and disheartened as you.” Callahan announced. “I wonder what Mrs. Bellamy is up to.”

            Mortensen shook his head and waved his hand toward the forest ahead of us. “Come on, Cheshire. Let’s start this wild goose chase.”

            I again raised a brow, confused by his description, but followed him regardless. The forest was probably the worst place to be in the rain, and I was honestly regretting my decision to wear my coat. There was no doubt in my mind that it would smell mouldy for weeks, maybe months, after this. I was soaked down to the bone, and I lagged behind Mortensen somewhat, my teeth chattering. I was not sure if he noticed, for he kept looking around like a dog sniffing for clues. He soon stopped, attracted by something, and knelt down.

            “Huh.” He exclaimed. “This is weird.”

            “What is it?” I stammered as I approached.

            Mortensen pointed at a yellow-ish green… thing. It looked like some sort of leaf, but really… melted.

            “What the bloody hell is that?” I asked in disgust.

            “I think we should take it.”

            “What?”

            Mortensen shrugged. “I don’t think this is the plant, but… Why not?”

            “There are plenty of reasons ‘why not’. Please don’t—” Mortensen picked it up. “—Jesus Christ.”

            “Feels weird. Want to feel it?”

            “I want to go home, that’s what I want.” I complained.

            Mortensen shrugged again, pocketing the melt-y leaf. Proceeding onward to an opening that revealed a pond (hence the name of the location), Mortensen rushed past it to pick up another odd leaf before returning to stand in front of the pond.

            “Look over there.” I said, gesturing with my dripping chin, as the rain really began to pour down on us, across the pond. “There are some strange plants over there.” I was gesturing to what appeared to be weeds, which we had not seen anywhere else. Mortensen and I walked around the edge of the pond, and when we got to the weeds, Mortensen knelt down.

            “Should I…” Mortensen looked at me. “Should I just uproot it?”

            “I suppose. I don’t see why not.”

            Mortensen tried to tug one of the three weeds up, but grunted, unable to do it. “Hold on.” He murmured. “What the fuck?” He propped himself onto one leg, his other knee against the ground, and pulled with quite some force. He fell back when finally the plant uprooted, only to reveal that the roots were actually the greens of beets… _Blue_ beets.

            “Um…” I stared at the beet that Mortensen held in confusion. “Is… Is that a beet?”

            “I think so?” Mortensen stared at it in equal dubiety. For a moment, we were both quiet.

            “Are… you going to uproot the others?”

            “Fuck yeah.” Mortensen did so, and pocketed all three.

            “Oh,” I said, “and there’s another one of your ugly vomit-coloured monstrosities over there.”

            “Neato.”

            Mortensen and I then returned to Callahan, who looked at the detective.

            “Hey, did you guys find it?” He asked. Mortensen revealed one of the beets, and Callahan went quiet. He did not seem to know how to respond. He merely stared, dumbfounded.

            “I guess so…” Mortensen said.

            Trying to find his voice, Callahan casually replied, “Good enough for me.”

            “So now what?” Mortensen.

            Callahan said nothing, glancing from the beet, to Mortensen, to myself, over and over before finally setting his gaze into a stare at the unnaturally coloured beet.

            “Right.” Mortensen put the plant back in his pocket and headed for his car. I followed him, eager to get out of the rain.

            “Well, I guess that’s that…” He said to me. “Let’s go home, Chesh.”

            “Mortensen…” I whined. “Would you please stop shortening my surname like that?

            Mortensen turned toward me, beaming me a wide smile. His blond hair was plastered to his face like his tie was to his shirt, but he did not seem to mind; he quite clearly enjoyed the heavy deluge.  
            “Aw, c’mon, you know you like it!” He teased lightly. “Besides, if you want me to stop shortening your surname, you’ll have to give me your first name.”

            “Err?!” I felt my face heat up despite the cold. There he was demanding intimacy again… “Well, I—…! I…!”

            Mortensen shook his head and snickered. “Heh heh heh, have it your way.” He threw the keys up into the air, catching them and turning back toward the car. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

 

            When we got home, Mortensen called his commissioner, Mrs. Bellamy about what to do with the beets. I sat on the couch wearing nothing but three towels, two on my body, and one wrapped around my hair. Mortensen, on the other hand, had only stripped everything on his upper body, and seemed to have no real intention of drying himself off. It was the first time I’d seen Mortensen shirtless, though really I had not taken a very good look, constantly averting my eyes. The fact that I was behind him, completely nude other than three loose cloths, was making me very nervous. If Mortensen was as nervous as myself, he was doing a good job of downplaying it by simply ignoring me.

            “Wait, what?” I heard him say. “You… _Burn_ them?”

            I finally looked over at him. He was looking at his coat, which hung over the back of the computer chair as usual.

            “Why?” He asked. There was a pause, and then he sighed. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Consider it done, then.” He hung up the phone, putting it back in its charger.

            “She wants you to burn them?” I asked to confirm.

            Mortensen glanced at me, but then he remembered I was practically unclothed, and he quickly turned his eyes back to his coat. “Uh, yeah. I don’t know how exactly she expects me to do that, but yeah.”

            “Well, you will, won’t you?”

            “I guess. Should I burn that other shit, too?” Mortensen reached into his balmacaan’s pocket, but stopped. “Wait.”

            “What?” I asked.

            From the pocket, Mortensen pulled out a blue maple leaf. “Oookay… I did not put this here, and the ‘vomit-coloured monstrosities’ are gone.”

            “I… don’t understand.”

            Mortensen held up the blue leaf and shook it a bit. “Lookie here. We’ve got a case of a weird leaf that turns green and ugly as shit when it gets wet.”

            I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”

            Mortensen rushed into the kitchen, where I heard him run the sink. He laughed and hurried back, presenting me with none other than the droopy green leaf we had found at Pale Forest Pond.  
           “Called it!” He exclaimed.

            “Burn it, yes.” I finally answered his previous question.

            “But it’s so cool.” Mortensen mused like a fascinated little boy.

            “ _Burn_ it.” I insisted. The plant gave me a bad feeling, as strange as it was.

            “Aww, phooey.” Mortensen stuck his tongue out at me before giggling. “Fine, fine. I’ll go try to burn them in the back.”

            “Don’t light the bloody house on fire, whatever you do.”

            “No promises.” Mortensen soon left with his cigarette lighter, and with an uneasy sigh I began rubbing my hair through the towel, trying to dry it. Mortensen could be so childish at times, but I believe that was something I admired him for most; at times he could seem bitter and cynical, but deep down, he was an honest dork that just liked to crack cute jokes. There really were two sides to the detective, and I had developed a deep liking for both of them.

            I took a deep breath and let my arms fall, deep in uncertainty. Perhaps… Perhaps I would like the intimacy, I thought. Maybe I _should_ tell him my first name…

            Mortensen barged in suddenly, coughing wildly and fanning his face. I would have jumped to my feet if it would not have meant fully exposing my nudity.

            “Mortensen?” I asked, concerned. “Mortensen, what—”

            “Fuck—” Mortensen choked, “Fuckin’—smoke—can’t see—fucking hell—!”

            As Mortensen blindly stumbled forward, I could not resist my need to help any longer, and I held the towel around myself with one hand as I stood, hurrying to Mortensen and placing a hand on his back to help guide him.

            “Please tell me that’s you—”

            “Who else would it be? You’re going to be alright, come on!” I placed my other hand on his chest and hurried him to the sink, which I turned on. “Wash your eyes out!” God, what was in those plants? Would he be blinded or made sick by this?

            Mortensen bent over and began splashing the tap water into his face, and I rubbed his back, not knowing what else to do. I noticed then the long scars running down either side of his back, but I disregarded them, too worried about Mortensen's present wellbeing.

            “I’m fine—” He gasped between splashes. “I’m fine.”

            I stopped rubbing his back and stood upright, letting out a troubled huff. It was then that I placed my hand on my hip and felt skin. I looked down; wow, was I ever exposed. To my left, I could see the towel on the floor. Right, I had been holding it with the hand I placed on his chest. Panic filled my chest, as Mortensen was now standing up and wiping the water off of his face. Did I have time to dash for the towel before he opened his eyes?

            The answer was undoubtedly no, so I took my second option of dashing into a crouch beside the counter, just out of Mortensen’s line of sight. I knelt in a foetal position, attempting to hide myself.

            “Cheshire?” Mortensen asked.

            “I appear to have lost my towel.” I admit, trying to sound cool and collected. “Would you be a gentleman and please toss it at me like I am some sort of wild animal you are afraid to look at.”

            Mortensen got a kick out of this. “I’m not sure. Should I?”

            “Please give me the towel.”

            “I dunno. Maybe you should get it yourself.” He teased.

            “Well, I cannot very well hop to it.”

            “What are you afraid of? We’re both men here.”

            He was correct, but still. “Please.”

            I heard another cackle from Mortensen, but then the towel hit my back. I wrapped it around myself, standing up slowly. Mortensen coughed some more, rather violently.

            “Mortensen—” I was cut off by Mortensen giving me a flippant hand wave.

            “I’m okay—” He insisted. “—really.”

            I wish I had not believed him, but at the time, I did. Mortensen did not sleepwalk that night.


	22. Chapter 22

            “Dress casually.” Mortensen instructed me after abruptly bringing it to my attention that we had a new case to approach. Honestly, I was not initially sure what to make of the request, as I was already casually dressed in my zip-up indigo sweater when Mortensen made it. I presumed that he was telling me not to put my coat on, despite it being somewhat chilly that late afternoon on October 10th. So, working with the weather, I ignored the instruction, putting my coat on before heading downstairs. Mortensen, to my surprise, was wearing just his green button up shirt. He did not seem to have any plans of wearing his coat, which would make this the first time I’d actually seen him leave the house without it.

            Mortensen looked over at me and sighed heavily, shaking his head. “I thought I told you to dress casually.” He complained.

            I raised a brow, confused. Just what did he consider casual? “But… I _am_ in casual attire.” I told him. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean…” Mortensen trailed off, apparently not knowing how to continue. Defeated, he finished with: “Ugh, never mind.” He bent down and began tying his shoes, but nearly fell over in the process.

            “Are you alright?” I asked, noticing his paleness.

            “Yep,” He replied, though I admit that he sounded like he was lying, “I’m just peachy.”

            I was not sure if I wanted to accuse him of telling me a white lie in case he was actually announcing the truth, so I kept my mouth shut.

            “You really won’t want to wear that coat where we’re going.” Mortensen told me. “Probably going to be hot as fuck there.”

            “And just where, exactly, are we going?” I questioned as I reluctantly slipped my coat off.

            “It’s a club.” Other than this, he left me in the dark.

            “A club? You mean… a nightclub?” My disapproval was showing. I could not help it.

            “Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like nightclubs, and I am aware that it’s not even noon yet. But apparently there’s a fugitive there that Bellamy, for some god-awful reason, wants _me_ to deal with.”

            “Let me get this straight. We’re dealing with an American fugitive, even though you’re from France and shouldn’t even technically be here anymore, who is currently in a nightclub before most nightclub-goers even wake up. Does that sound about right?”

            “Just as nonsensical, too.” Mortensen confirmed as he stood, giving me a dork-ish shrug.

            “Are we sure he’s even there?” My brows were furrowed in worry that we would be going all the way there for nothing.

            “Nope. Maybe he took the day off. However, I bet that if he did, his clients would kick his ass.”

            “What does he do there?”

            “Sells drugs. Or… something. I dunno. Runs a gang? He used to run a gang.” Mortensen spoke as thoughts occurred to him, barely making sense and often repeating himself. “He probably still runs it. His name is Peter Groves. He’s African-American.”

            “Oh,” I mused. “I see. That explains a lot.”

            Mortensen stopped, his facial expression twisted into one of confusion. “Wait… What’s that supposed to mean?”

            I glanced around the room for no particular reason as Mortensen glared at me. “Err… Well, I mean… He’s… He’s black.”

            “So?”

            “So, he knows no better. At least he found something he’s good at.”

            “Are…” Mortensen laughed nervously. “Okay, that’s… You know how racist you sound right now, right?”

            “It’s not racist.” I said innocently. “It’s the truth.”

            Mortensen’s look of confusion turned into a look of amused surprise. “Wow. I have to admit, this is probably a first for me. I mean, I’ve met people that hate Mexicans, Australians, and fuck, even Brits and Frenchmen, but… It’s pretty rare to see someone so forward in their hatred of Africans.”

            I was a bit taken aback. “Oh, no, I don’t hate them!” I argued. “It’s just that…” I shrugged, not knowing how to phrase my explanation without sounding crazy. At the time, I was still unaware that blacks were held in higher respect than they had been in the Victorian era.

            Mortensen leaned in closer to me. “Let me just give you a tip, Cheshire, if you don’t know this already.” Clamping his hands onto my shoulders, he said, “ _Shut up_.”

            I meekly nodded, silently apologizing for my racist remarks, though I had not meant for them to be taken in a hateful nature: I had merely thought that was how people would always think of the race. I was, however, somewhat relieved that was not the case.

* * *

 

            When we arrived at the club, despite it being empty there was music blaring, and the lights were changing colours gradually. Mortensen had been correct: it was, in fact, rather hot inside.

            “Err… This place is pretty empty.” I said.

            With a shrug, Mortensen said, “Guess it ain’t happy hour yet.”

            Mortensen began to approach the bar, and I followed him closely. There was one other man sitting at the bar, and the bartender looked at us as if he was threatening us with his eyes. Something did not sit right with me. This was a nightclub. So why was it open now? Why was a bartender present at this hour, if he’d need to be present later, in the late evening? The malicious glare the bartender and his current customer, sitting closer to the back of the bar, gave me did not make me any less uneasy.

            Mortensen, on the other hand, either did not notice their staring or did not care as he wanted to remain undercover.  
            “Maybe we should order some drinks.” He said to me.

            “Oh Christ.” I replied. “You’re not going to get drunk on me, are you?”

            “Phrasing~.” Mortensen teased before ordering two bottles of beer from the bartender. Slowly, as if trying to make his distaste at our presence more apparent, he turned away from us to get two beers. I had never drank alcohol before, so I genuinely hoped that Mortensen would not make me for the sake of remaining undercover. Luckily, just as we were given the beers, a door nearby opened. An African-American man, presumably Peter Groves, stepped out of the room, only to turn back and talk quietly with someone in the room while still standing in the doorway. He had not seen us yet, so I leaned in closer to Mortensen, who hadn’t bothered to look over.

            “Mortensen,” I whispered, “don’t look, but I think the person we’re looking for is coming toward us.”

            Mortensen snorted quietly. “What did I tell you about phrasing?” He quipped.

            “I’m serious. What do we do?”

            Mortensen opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly lurched forward, his face and tensed body both outwardly expressing the abrupt agony he was in. His hand shot to his chest, not so much to his heart, but lower and further left, to his left lung.

            “Are you alright?” I asked, trying to mask my concern in case this was some sort of ploy, which I doubted.

            “Y—yeah…” Mortensen panted. “Yeah, I’m… I’m f—fine…”

            My worry was beginning to overcome my ability to hide my emotions. “You’re clutching your chest… Are you in pain?”

            Mortensen said nothing, trying to catch his breath. His head was pressed into the surface of the bar, and the bartender was looking at us with even more hatred. It dawned on me that he was probably working with Groves, who was still ignoring us, though he was no longer speaking. Instead of his voice, I heard another, which I would’ve sworn up and down was that of Officer Feliz Florence if not for the fact that his presence there did not make any sense to me at the time. Whoever it was, it sounded like they and Groves were having a bit of a spat.

            Suddenly filled with a powerful desire, not only for my own safety, but for the concern of Mortensen’s health, I turned my full attention to the detective. “I demand that you seek medical treatment.” I snapped.

            “Wh—wh—” Mortensen could not speak.

            “I am taking you to the hospital.”

* * *

 

            The drive to the hospital was easier for me than the drive from Mortensen’s home to Summit, so there were no questions about whether or not I was legally permitted to drive. However, the worst part was having to wait in the waiting room while the doctors examined Mortensen, as the detective had not permitted me to follow him. His refusal to let me stay by his side at the hospital made me a bit upset, but I decided not to express my displeasure; I was too worried.

            Ignoring the possibility that the doctors could very well come up with nothing, my mind ran through all of the horrible outcomes of this hospital visit, and again I remembered Mortensen’s age. As much as I wanted to forget the fact, his time was ticking. However, how quickly it was ticking… of that I was unsure. How much time did he have left? What if he didn’t have very much? I lowered my head, staring at the floor in silent terror.

            It wasn’t for a while that Mortensen returned to me. Without saying much, he and I headed to his car.

            “The keys?” He asked, holding out his palm. I reluctantly gave him the car keys, and then we both got into the car. Mortensen sighed, not yet starting the car. I looked over at him.

            “What did they say?” I asked after a small, nervous pause.

            “They want me to come back for some tests.” He said.

            “Tests for what?”

            Mortensen inserted the key into the ignition, twisting it and starting the car. He did not answer.

            “What are they testing you for?” I asked again, rephrasing my question.

            Again, he refused to answer.

            Over the next thirteen days, Mortensen was rather quiet, and spent every other day coming and going from the hospital. He spent what time I did see him zoned out, staring into space with a glazed over expression. However, whenever he did speak, he tried to act normally, making small jokes and remaining mostly positive.

            It was on the 23rd, the thirteenth day, when Mortensen returned home and I immediately knew that a conclusion had been reached. I was sitting on the couch when the door opened, and Mortensen took a long moment before actually entering. The look in his eyes… I will never forget how distant, desperate, and distraught he looked.

            “You’re back.” I said in relief as I stood, pretending not to notice his grim appearance.

            “Hey, Chesh…” He mumbled, feigning pleasure. A small smile appeared at his lips for a moment, though his eyes remained the same, and he retracted his false smile too quickly. I stared at him as he stared at the floor, and we remained this way in utter silence for what felt like an eternity. I could hear nothing but my racing heart.

            After what must have been only a minute or so, I asked, “Well, Mortensen, are you going to come inside, or are you just going to stand in front of the door all day?”

            Slowly, he began shuffling his feet, closing and locking the door behind himself, and approached the couch, his head down. I resumed sitting, looking up at him.

            “Um… Is everything okay?” I finally asked, though I knew the answer already. “You look… distressed.”

            “Everything’s fine…” Mortensen told me as he sat down beside me. Getting a better look at his face, I noticed his eyelids seemed a bit reddened and puffy.

            “Are you certain? Because from my perspective, you seem as though you’re about to cry…”

            Mortensen shook his head, smiling bittersweetly. “Heh, crying… won’t help anything. I would know…” He trailed off, and I knew what he meant. Suddenly, I was overcome with a swell of feeling for Mortensen, and I just wanted to hold him close and tell him it would be alright, but I couldn’t bring myself to act on my impulse. “I’m not going to cry…” He finished, his head still lowered.

            “What happened?” I questioned gently.

            “Nothing, I’m just depressed…” He told me. “I get like this sometimes, just bear with me…”

            I had seen Mortensen depressed. What he was expressing now, whether he realized it or not, was worse than that. Whatever had happened had left him devastated. However, I did not have the courage to point that out, so instead I sighed and asked,  
            “So then, what was said at the hospital?”

            “Well…” Mortensen took a deep breath. After a brief shake of his head (which I do not believe I was supposed to notice), he sat upright and said, “Apparently I’m fine.”

            I shot him a look that was more confused than it was accusing. “Fine? But—”

            Confidently, as if completely forgetting about his distress, he continued, “They ran their little tests or whatever, and besides the slight obvious damage from smoking, I’m fine.”

            I furrowed my brows, not realizing at the time that he was dropping several hints for me. “‘Slight obvious damage’?”

            “You know, that ‘tar in the lungs’ mumbo jumbo horseshit.” Mortensen joked, rolling his eyes for added sarcasm.

            “But…” I wanted to believe that his depression had been a ruse, just to see how I would react. So, despite the explanation not sitting right in my mind, I chose to believe that a simple mood swing was to blame. I just wanted something to cling to, even if it was an obvious lie. “In spite of this, you’re, more or less, fine?”

            “Yep.” Mortensen said, but then paused before adding, “So long as I give cigarettes a rest.” A cocky smirk spread across his handsome mug. “I’m too stubborn for that, though.”

            I frowned intensely, not bothering to hide my anger. “No, Mortensen, we’re not going to play this game anymore. You’re going to quit smoking altogether.”

            Mortensen scoffed. “What, cold turkey?”

            “What does turkey have to do with anything?”

            There was a long pause, during which Mortensen stared at me blankly. I slowly began to realize that he had not meant that literally, and that it was simply an idiom that I had never heard. My angry stare began to waver as I watched Mortensen’s agape mouth begin to, very slowly, curl into a smile.

            “Aha ha,” He began, then repeated the dry chuckle before bursting into hysterical laughter. My bottled emotions exploded into a stress-relieving but quiet laugh. We shared this tranquil moment only briefly before Mortensen’s hand slammed down onto mine on the couch and the detective suddenly moved closer. I flinched, ripping my hand out from under his, before I learned that he had not done this intentionally, as he turned away from me and began to cough loudly and wetly.

            “Ouch, my chest,” He complained once he caught his breath.

            Realizing that my idea of what he was going to do (for some unexplainable reason, I had been under the impression that he was going to try to kiss me or something) was entirely wrong, I placed my hand on his back and leaned closer. “What about that pain in your chest?” I asked, still in denial about Mortensen’s excuse that he was “fine”.

            Mortensen stuck with his lie. “It’ll go away with time, I’m sure…” He coughed a bit, cleared his throat, and then sat back upright. “I’m feeling a little better already.”

            As I gazed at the detective, unable to peel my eyes away, I decided it would be easier to believe him. What reason did he have to lie to me, after all? “That’s a relief…” I sighed.

            I was such an idiot.

* * *

 

            “Mortensen?” My voice was gentle as I spoke to Mortensen, who had just sat down on his bed that night.

            The detective looked over the room at me. “Hm?”

            With my knees pulled up, as I had been just about to push myself under the covers of my own bed, I asked, “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” I will admit that I had already asked the question several times, so Mortensen’s reply was not much of a surprise to me.

            “For the last time, Cheshire: yes.” He said with a deep huff.

            “Alright, if you say so, Detective…”

            For a long moment, we stayed still, just gazing at each other. Some part of me almost wanted to ask to lay with him for the night, but the other part of me was horrified at the prospect and reasoned that such a request would be heavily misread.

            “Goodnight.” Mortensen said, trying to break the tension, but still did not move.

            “Goodnight…” I replied. Finally, we both laid down. For a while, I laid there completely still, with my eyes wide open. However, it did not take long for fatigue to set in, and I drifted into an uneasy sleep.

            I was not concerned when, a few hours later, I awoke to the sound of the bedroom door opening. I was, however, _very_ concerned when I heard the front door open and close, concerned enough to jolt upright in bed.

            “Oh, bollocks…!” I said as I leapt to my feet. From there, I rushed downstairs, being careful not to slip on the stairs somehow, as Mortensen had a tendency to do so at least once a month. I dashed to the front door. It was unlocked, confirming my fear. I had heard of cases where sleepwalkers would get in their car and start driving, so I was slightly calmed when I realized that I had not heard the car start.

            I nearly ripped the door open, looking outside. Mortensen was not in sight, and it was raining. I quickly put on my shoes, which luckily did not require laces, and threw on my coat, despite the fact that it was not waterproof. Then I dashed outside, pulling the door closed, sprinting to the sidewalk, where I looked first to my left, then to my right. Down the street, to my right, I could see Mortensen shuffling with his head down, wearing only his robe.

            “ _Mortensen!_ ” I screamed after him, running over to his side. He had not made it that far, so it did not take much for me to catch up with him. Plus, he had, for some reason, stopped walking. “Christ,” I gasped. “Come now, Detective. You’ll catch your absolute death out here, wearing nothing but that robe around you…”

            Mortensen mumbled something, but I was unable to make it out.

            “What?”

            He spoke a tad louder, but still not loud enough for me to hear.

            “Speak up, Mortensen.”

            “ _I hear… th’church bells…_ ”

            “What church bells?” I asked.

            “Ch—… Ch—cherries…”

            “Eh…? How does your train of thought even…?” I realized the futility of trying to hold a coherent conversation with Mortensen while he was in this state, and shook my head at myself. “Oh, never mind… I can’t honestly expect more from someone who’s asleep, I suppose…” I then took off my coat, draping it around Mortensen’s drooped shoulders.

            “ _Church bells…_ ” Quieter, Mortensen added, “ _calling me home…_ ”

            “Yes, home…” With my arm around his shoulders, I turned him around. “Let’s get you back to bed, Elliot…”

            It took a little bit of patience and effort to finally get Mortensen not just back home, but back upstairs. However, within a few minutes, we returned to Mortensen’s bedroom. On his own, Mortensen shuffled ahead of me before flopping down onto his bed. I hesitantly took hold of his legs, which dangled over the edge of the bed, and moved them onto the surface. Then, I knelt beside him.

            “Geez…” I sighed in relief that he was back home safely. “By the looks of it, I guess you’re going to sleep with my coat…” I lowered my head and mumbled, “That’s kind of cute, actually…”

            “Dark…”

            I looked up at Mortensen when I heard him mumble the word. “Dark”? I wondered if he was complaining about the room.

            “In the dark… I don’t…” He moved his head. “Get away…”

            I had to question just what it was he was talking about. Was it a dream, or…?

            Malachy’s words returned to me once more. “ _Don’t get involved with his demons._ ”

            Mortensen began to toss his head from side to side, looking increasingly distressed. “Dark… _Dark…_ ”

            Instinctively, I reached out, beginning to stroke his hair. “Ssh… There, there, Mortensen. It’s alright… You’re safe with me.”

            “Cheshire…” Mortensen murmured. He tried to say something afterward, but I could not hear it. He appeared to be falling back into a deeper sleep. I found it interesting that he had been able to recognize my voice even while half asleep, but I did not think too much of it.

            I spent a few minutes just sitting there, quietly continuing to comfort Mortensen. It was apparent from his content and almost angelic expression that he was back in a comfortable sleep, yet for some reason I could not bring myself to leave his side.

            “Ah, to hell with it.” I told myself quietly, “I’ll stay here. Too curious to be tired, anyway…”

            And so, by his side is where I stayed, with my heart still aching from a deeply-rooted concern for the detective’s wellbeing that I was sure would never leave.


	23. Chapter 23

                It was only November 1st, but it had already begun snowing quite heavily in New Jersey. A half hour long drive to Elizabeth, a city a nudge south, made no difference in the level of snow. Mortensen drove us to Goethals Bridge, where Callahan had instructed us to go for our next case. Little had I known, at the time, that this case would destroy everything that Mortensen and I had worked so hard to create together.

            Underneath Goethals, right in front of its base, laid the corpse of a woman. Her golden hair was in a messy braid, and her crimson-coloured scarf was wrapped loosely around her neck, drooping over her face. While she was quite clearly dead, her porcelain skin still looked almost flawless. She looked familiar. I should have realized who she was sooner. Perhaps if I had, Mortensen might have dropped the case when he could…

            When we first arrived at the scene and saw the corpse, Mortensen and I shared a look. He then approached Callahan, who stood parallel to us, and I followed him like a loyal pet.

            “What happened here?” Detective Mortensen asked his superior.

            Inspector General Callahan took a deep, uncomfortable breath. Obviously, he too was getting a bad feeling from that place. “Well, it was a suicide.” He did not sound very confident, and this was accented by him adding: “At least, we _think_ it’s a suicide.”

            Without looking at me, Mortensen asked, “Cheshire?”

            I looked up at him, surprised. “Hmm? Why are you asking me?”

            “Because, you normally know these things.”

            By Jove, he was right. However, I… was clueless as to what happened to the woman. The answer was staring me in the face, I knew that much even then, but at the time, I was entirely unable to figure out what it was. Whenever I tried to come to a conclusion, my head began to ache horridly.  
            “I… I haven’t the foggiest idea this time.” I awkwardly told him. “Sorry.”

            “Wait, really? _You’re_ stumped?” Callahan inquired in disbelief.

            I shrugged. “I’ve no idea what events transpired here…” I admit. “If I try to think about it, I suddenly come down with a horrible headache…”

            “So… Neither of us know a thing about what happened here, then?” Callahan raised a brow.

            “That seems to be the case…” I confirmed.

            “Well, uh, that’s…” Callahan laughingly scoffed. “That’s not good.”

            I placed two of my fingers against my left temple, rubbing in a counter-clockwise motion in an attempt to possibly alleviate my headache. “F—forgive me, gentlemen.” I stammered, embarrassed and humbled by my sudden uselessness. “It… doesn’t seem that I will be of much use, this time around…”

            “Stick around anyway.” Mortensen told me, vaguely comforting. “Maybe you’ll piece something together as we go along.” I nodded in agreement, and Mortensen and I took a closer look at the scene before us.

            Really, there was not very much to go on. Just a body… or so I thought, until Mortensen approached the sign that was under the bridge. There had been a piece of paper there, but I thought nothing of it. It was too far from the corpse for me to consider it important.

            “Mortensen,” I complained, “it’s probably just a scrap of newspaper.”

            “Nope,” He replied as he got up from his haunches to approach me. He showed me the paper, and my weak little heart stopped for a moment when I saw what was written on it…

            _1846._

            I looked up at Mortensen nervously. The pieces weren’t connecting in my head, for I was too concerned with his reaction; he had implied once that he knew of the Eclipse Genocide, but did he know when it happened? I figured that he didn’t when he narrowed his eyes at me for some reason, but then put the note into his pocket and turned to the corpse. He began to approach the body casually, and this time I followed slowly and from a small distance.

            The detective went back onto his haunches to examine the body. He did not seem uncomfortable as most people did around a dead body, but this was not surprising to me, as he had at home made several disturbing jokes about cadavers one day. I took a closer look at the woman’s body myself, but did not kneel. Some sort of image was beginning to form in my mind, but what was it?

            “She… She looks so…” I began, prompting Mortensen to look up at me. Suddenly, my headache spiked tremendously, and my hands shot to my head as I groaned loudly in pain.

            “Cheshire?” Mortensen asked, concerned, though he did not get up from his crouch.

            I waved my hand dismissively, though I had not yet reopened my eyes. “I—it’s fine… I can keep going…” However, whether I was trying to convince Mortensen or myself, I’m not sure.

            “Are you sure…?” Mortensen began to sound a tad gentler. “You look mortified…”

            “I’m _fine…_ ” I stubbornly insisted. Looking back on it, I should not have done so. I should have insisted that I was not fine.

            Mortensen, with a defeated sigh, turned his attention back to the body.  
            “Christ…” He said. “It certainly doesn’t look like she jumped… But it doesn’t look like anything else could have killed her, either.”

            “Perhaps we should take her to a pathologist,” I suggested quietly, “for more thorough observations…”

            “Yeah, maybe…” Mortensen agreed, but then he looked closer at the woman’s trunk. “Hang on, what’s this?”

            “What is it?” I asked.

            “There’s a note in her pocket.” Looking closer, I noticed a small corner of paper sticking out of the pocket of her red parka. Mortensen frowned. “Technically, I probably shouldn’t touch it, but… to hell with the integrity of the crime scene. Nothing here anyway.” Carelessly, he reached into her pocket and pulled out the note. He unfolded it and stared quietly.

            “Mortensen?” I could not see the note from where I stood. Mortensen looked over at me and slowly turned the paper toward me. Scribbled onto it in black pen, over and over across the page, were the words “ _I FELL FOR IT_ ”.

            “Hey, Elliot,” Callahan hollered, not bothering to come closer. “You mind sharing whatever that is this time?”

            “You probably don’t want to see it,” Mortensen responded with a small grin.

            “Well, what if I do?”

            Mortensen shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He stood up and approached Callahan with the note, and I closely followed the detective.

            “Jesus,” Callahan exclaimed when he saw the note.

            “Told you.” Mortensen laughed. Then, he changed his tone, folding the note into his pocket as he asked: “Callahan, do we have any pathologists we can get ahold of?”

            Callahan, while not seeming necessarily surprised by the question, appeared somewhat put off by it. “Well, I mean, I know of one that’s currently in the area, but… I don’t really know if he’s any good.”

            “Well, he’d better be,” Mortensen announced, “because we’re probably going to need the best goddamned pathologist we can find.”

            God, Mortensen. I am so sorry that he remained involved in that case…

* * *

 

            Two days later, Mortensen and I were standing in the lobby of a small autopsy department run by some Dr. Dallas Calhoon. We had been waiting there for what must have been ten minutes of silence before Calhoon called us into his office. My bad feeling had not yet disappeared, resulting in me having had next to no sleep.

            Calhoon’s office, as it turned out, was where he did all of his work with corpses. Surprisingly, the smell was not entirely unpleasant, which shortly after coming to that conclusion I attributed to the fact that the pathologist had a lot of scented candles around. The corpse of the woman was now in a red dress, which I presumed had been under her coat, and if he had opened her up or anything like that, he had since put her back together.

            Calhoon himself was… not quite what I had expected, for some reason. He was a small man, standing no taller than 5’6”. His feminine features threw me for a small loop, and his eyes were large and deeply brown. His blond hair was thick and neck-length, also somewhat unkempt. Despite the bags under his eyes, his freckles and dimples combined with the friendly body language he gave expressed to me that he was a happy and generally positive man, even in the face of the death that lay before him.

            “I take it you’re the pathologist?” Mortensen asked, as if he was also taken aback by how very quaint the doctor looked.

            “I am he.” Calhoon responded, revealing a thicker Texan accent than the one that Mortensen possessed. “You must be Detective Mortensen, and…?” He trailed off as he looked over at me, not knowing my name. I blanked for a moment, not realizing that I was supposed to say anything; I was too busy reading deeper into the doctor. He was from Texas, obviously. Somehow, that explained to me why he was such a positive person, though I was not sure if I was stereotyping or not.

            Noticing before I did that I had missed an important social cue, Mortensen spoke up. “This is Dr. Cheshire.”

            I looked up. “Hmm? Pardon?”

            “You were zoned out.” Mortensen said. “Everything alright?”

            Everything was not alright. “Oh, uh, well, forgive me… Yes, everything’s absolutely fine.” I was lying through my teeth, but I felt I had to.

            Believing me, Mortensen turned back to the pathologist. “So, Dr. Calhoon—”

            “Oh,” Calhoon waved his hand limply. “You can just drop the ‘Doctor’. Sounds weird anyway.”

            Mortensen and I exchanged a glance. Calhoon certainly was looking to be an interesting specimen…  
            “Sure.” Mortensen agreed after too long of a pause. “Calhoon, have you found anything out?”

            Calhoon seemed not to notice our response to his feminine body language, and he placed his hands on his hips and he sighed. “Well, to be honest… I can’t figure out what it was that killed her. Nothing seems to be wrong with her, really. I mean, no open wounds, no internal bleeding, no fractures…” He looked up at Mortensen and I confidently, adding, “All I can say, though, is that she certainly didn’t _fall_ off of that bridge.”

            Mortensen appeared somewhat disheartened. “So… Nothing’s wrong with her? No signs of heart failure? Nothing, at all?”

            “Nope.” Calhoon admit. “It’s sorta peculiar. She looks healthy.” With his hand on his chin, he mumbled: “Just one thing, though…”

            “What’s that?” Mortensen inquired.

            “Well, it’s an obvious one, sorta, but…” Calhoon awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “She doesn’t have any blood. It’s been… drained, or something.”

            My heart began to race. No blood? The image in my mind’s eye was gradually becoming clearer.  
            “I’m sorry,” I cut in, “did you just say that she doesn’t have any blood?”

            “None that I can see.” Calhoon told me. “Uh, she does have something on the walls of her veins, but it’s not blood, whatever it is.”

            I felt my “blood” run cold. She had no blood, but she had something. I recognized her now. _It was Camille._

            “Cheshire, you’re looking pretty pale.” Mortensen said as he tried to make eye contact with me, but with my head reeling, I refused to meet his gaze. It was not possible. Camille was dead! And yet, while that was true, here was her corpse, presented not just to me, but to Mortensen as well!

            “Have you lost your blood too?” Calhoon joked as he began to giggle.

            “ _No!_ ” I snapped suddenly, taking a step back. When I noticed the surprised stare that Mortensen and Calhoon were both giving me, I suddenly felt the judgment of their eyes and straightened myself. I was beginning to break into a cold sweat. Nothing made sense. “I… S—s—…” I shook my head, trying to snap back to my senses. “No, it’s nothing.” My nervousness was still obvious from the high and shaky strain of my voice.

            “Cheshire…?” Mortensen, stunned and concerned, was gentle with his words.

            “Sorry, are you, uh, queasy, Dr. Cheshire?” Calhoon asked, clueless.

            “Um… Y—yes…? That’s… got to be my problem, Calhoon…”

            “ _Queasy?_ ” Mortensen questioned the wording. “Cheshire, you’ve never been queasy before…”

            I glanced back at Camille. “No, I… I’ve got to get out.” Just like that, I was inconsolable once more. “I just… I… I can’t bear being in this room any longer!” Almost against my own will, I rushed out of Calhoon’s office. Mortensen, thankfully, did not follow me.

            I sat down on the blue couch in the lobby and buried my face into my gloved palms. Backing out of the case, I realized, was no longer an option. Mortensen had been more than upset with the other cases I’d made him drop. Thanks to my panic, if I tried to make him drop this one, he may lose trust in me. I was at a loss as to what to do. Was there truly no way out of this?

            After a few more minutes, Mortensen came out and stood beside me. “Cheshire.”

            I looked up at him somewhat, but did not look at his face yet. “Sorry for breaking into hysterics back there.” I muttered. “I do not know what came over me.”

            “Let’s go.” The detective’s voice was missing that gentle tone he usually used when he knew I was unwell. I finally met his gaze, only to discover that he was almost… _glaring_ at me. His look of compassion was ever so slightly glazed over with one of uncertainty and suspicion. Had I done something wrong?

            Reluctantly, I stood up. He turned and walked ahead of me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his balmacaan. I had a bad feeling, rightfully so. However, what I failed to do at the time was acknowledge it. I should have listened to my intuition.

* * *

 

            On the 7th, which was a Sunday, Mortensen got another call from Callahan, after which he gave me a very brief rundown of what he said. Apparently, we were to return to Elizabeth to meet a “low-profile CIA Agent” named Russell Southwell. With that alone, my mind did backflips toward another fit of hysteria. I mean, my God, what were the odds?! First, my dead wife from the bloody Victorian era practically arrives on our doorstep, and then we have to meet a man who had been suspicious of me since the Autumnwolf Incident!

            I kept silent about it for only one reason: Mortensen’s attitude toward me had not changed much since our visit to Calhoon. He spoke less and less, and sometimes even seemed to give me the cold shoulder. I could not understand what I had done to make him cross with me, so I began to wonder if perhaps Calhoon had told him something. However, when I thought about it, that conclusion made no sense either. Why would Mortensen believe Calhoon’s word over mine? Admittedly, I had not actually given my word on the matter, as I knew not of what the matter was, but I digress.

            That morning, we did indeed head to Elizabeth. We walked down some residential streets until we saw Agent Southwell leaning against a bus stop sign. He had earbuds in, and did not seem to notice us yet. Not caring, however, Mortensen continued his brisk walking toward the younger man. I, on the other hand, began to slow down somewhat. If Southwell recognized me and said something to Mortensen, I would be caught between the devil and deep blue sea. Finally, Southwell noticed Mortensen (probably because he was like a homing missile of pure hatred at that point in time), and he took out his earbuds.

            “Are you Russell Southwell?” The detective almost demanded to know.

            Intimidated, Southwell tried to sound professional as he looked up at Mortensen. I half expected him to do some sort of salute, but thankfully, he was not that socially awkward. “Yes, sir. I guess you must be Detective Mortensen.”

            Narrowing his eyes, Mortensen sneered. “That was sort of a given, I think.” He mocked. His mood was, as I implied before, absolutely horrid, and I was sure that his patience was already wearing _very_ thin.

            “Yeah, but I decided I’d ask anyway.” Southwell was clearly uncomfortable, so to my dismay, he turned his attention to me. “Who’s your… _friend_ …?” His eyes widened. Oh, no. “Hold on, I recognize you.” Mortensen shot me an accusing glare. Now I was the one taking the heat…

            “Uh… Well, I…”

            “Wait… _You!_ ” Southwell seemed to fall into a brief state of shock due to seeing me again. I do not believe he knew that I was the one that helped him after Locklear shot him. What I did know was that he thought (correctly, might I add) that I had been the true culprit in the Autumnwolf Incident, which was, obviously, terrible for me. “I… remember you… now…” He trailed off, his face paling, and I could not help but turn my head to the ground.

            “Do you two know each other?” Mortensen asked.

            “N—” I wanted to lie, but I realized that doing so would only hurt me more. “Well… Err…”

            “You… You’re the guy that…” Southwell struggled to figure out how he wanted to word his question. “You were part of Autumnwolf, weren’t you?”

            Mortensen groaned impatiently. “Again with this ‘Autumnwolf’ shit…!” He shouted before demanding: “Cheshire, tell me what he’s talking about.” Before I could make an excuse for myself, Southwell spoke again.

            “‘Cheshire’? My God, it _is_ you…!” He gasped.

            “Let’s get back to discussing _this_ case, shall we?” I asked, trying to remain composed enough to change the subject. “After all, the past is in the past.”

            If I did not know any better, I would have thought by Mortensen’s extremely harsh glare that he was about to murder me. “No,” He commanded, his voice just under a yell, “right now, I want to know what you guys are talking about.” Though I used my eyes to silently plead with Mortensen to back off of the subject, he turned to the young CIA Agent. “Southwell, what’s ‘Autumnwolf’?”

            “I take it you’re not a big Indie film fan?” Southwell asked, trying to lighten the mood by teasing lightly.

            “Not at all.” Mortensen shut him down.

            Southwell looked at me with a determined stare that I read as him telling me he wanted to see me flounder like a fish out of water.  
            “Autumnwolf was a group of people who made Indie films for fun, more or less.” He began. “While they were filming their eleventh movie, all but three of them died. Those three were Collin Locklear, Apryl Knowlton, and the infamous Dr. Cheshire.” I wanted to shut him up, but Mortensen, as if sensing my urge to speak, suddenly pressed his fingers to my lips without even looking at me. I shoved his hand away from me, despising the intimacy of skin-to-skin contact and feeling that the gesture was rather rude.  
            Southwell continued. “Now, Collin had a gun. Our best bet was that he’d snapped and killed them. However, I knew that wasn’t true.” His green eyes met mine. “Dr. Cheshire also proved that it wasn’t.” I could not help but glare at him, but he continued to talk nevertheless.  
            “That leaves Apryl and Dr. Cheshire as the only possible culprits. However, I’ve become close with Apryl, and I’ve determined that she isn’t strong enough. There’s no way she could’ve done the things that happened in there, especially not so cleanly, not without medical knowledge.”

            I wanted to scoff, because my medical knowledge had nothing to do with my crimes. I had not been thinking, and the murders were _definitely_ not clean. However, Mortensen again stared at me.

            “Shut up.” He hushed, and I shrugged as if to ask what his problem was, since I had not even made a noise and was now the one becoming fed up. However, he did not respond, instead turning his full attention back to Southwell.

            Southwell suddenly pointed his finger at me, as if using a melodramatic accusatory motion would have any impact. “So that leaves Dr. Cheshire as the last and only possibility.” He smirked at me, in contrast to my vengeful snarl. “What do you think of that?” The question was directed, quite arrogantly so, at me.

            “That’s cute, Southwell.” I growled. “Clearly you’ve taken classes in dramatics since we last met.”

            “Yeah, I figured you’d say something like that, you bastard.” He countered, lowering his hand.

            I forced a false smile at him, but my eyes remained locked on him with full distaste. “Now that you’ve had your little rant about what you think of me and how little you trust me,” I spoke as though he was an annoying child, “let’s discuss the case.”

            “Fine, whatever.” Crossing his arms, Southwell led us down the street so we were just off of the main road before he resumed speaking. “Just for the record, I have no experience on the field.” He told us. “I have only the vaguest idea how to use a gun, my specialty is, quote unquote, hacking computers.”

            “‘Quote unquote’?” I questioned his odd wording.

            “I like to call it manipulating, but it’s easier to explain if I say hacking.” He admit.

            “Right.” I said sarcastically. Realizing that Mortensen clearly had no intention of speaking anymore for some reason, I proceeded to almost interrogate the poor man in front of me. “So why would a hacker be beneficial to us?”

            “Did you see the security camera pictures?” Southwell asked, and I realized that Mortensen had not told me there had been pictures of the crime. “They were so… broken. It looks like either the camera or the footage was tampered with.”

            “Your point being?” I asked, deciding not to accuse Mortensen of keeping something from me.

            “With me, you can prevent that from happening. I can download undoctored footage and stop anyone from tampering with cameras externally.”

            His confidence was sickening.  
            “Well that’s _good for you_ , Southwell.” I mocked. “Perhaps I’ll give you a call should my VCR keep blinking or go haywire.” Honestly, I did not know what a VCR actually was, but I had heard of it. I hoped I did not sound like an idiot, but at that moment, I really did not care if I did or not.

            “Look,” Southwell argued, “if he disrupted that last camera, he’ll do it again! You’ll never be able to catch him in the act!”

            “I shall see to it the fiend’s caught in the act _personally._ ” I did not realize until later that I was almost equally as full of myself as Southwell in that instant.

            “You can’t catch a vampire in the act.”

            Southwell’s words boggled my mind. For a long moment, I was absolutely speechless, not even sure where to begin addressing his childishness. Mortensen seemed stunned as well, though it was not much different than the silence he had been contributing before, so I could not tell.

            “What?” Southwell asked. “Why are you guys looking at me like that? Come on! The fact that the victim has no blood? The fact that we can’t see the culprit? It’s obvious!”

            “It’s not a vampire, that much I know…” Mortensen finally spoke. He sounded timid all of the sudden, not unlike a prey under the eye of its predator. His sudden change in attitude was what made me look over at him, suddenly concerned.

            “What was that?” Southwell asked, not having caught Mortensen’s remark due to how sudden it was.

            Mortensen lowered and shook his head. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.” Awkwardly, he cleared his throat, raising his head. “Ignore me.”

            I stared at Mortensen for a long moment, and he seemed uncomfortable under my eyes. Did he know something else that I did not know?

            Southwell shook it off and continued with his appeal. “What I’m trying to say is that you’ll never catch this guy unless you can see him without his knowing. I can help you do that.”

            I resumed glaring at the young man. “Ah, but you see,” I began sharply, “there _are_ other methods up our sleeves which we could use, that _don’t_ require your assistance.”

            Now seeming particularly frustrated by my stubborn refusal to accept his help, Southwell took a step forward, again pointing at me accusingly, but this time getting his hand all up in my face. As I smacked his hand away, he shouted, “Dr. Cheshire, he won’t stop! You of all people should be able to recognize that you need all the help you can get to catch this bastard _immediately!_ ”

            “He’s right, Cheshire.” Mortensen said abruptly, causing me to whip my head around to stare at him in angry disbelief.

            “What?!” I questioned, rather upset that Mortensen was not on my side.

            Mortensen’s glare was again making me feel that he was not a man to be trifled with. He could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be.  
            “I want this fucker caught ASAP.” He announced. “I’m not going to push aside what’s best for the case just because you’ve got a bad history with someone. Get over it.” As I stared at him, my displeasure and disgust showing clearly on my face, he leaned a bit closer, his thin lips curled into a frightening snarl.  
            “If you want to argue with me, then let’s have a domestic back at my place. But out here?” He placed his hand over his chest, as if to add more impact to his words. “ _I’m_ the Detective. It’s _my_ call. I want this criminal _out of my life._ ”

            Surely he had accidentally let me know that he did, in fact, know more than anyone else. He knew the culprit, did he not? However, I was so annoyed in that moment that I ignored what was staring me in the face. I crossed my arms, frowning intensely at Mortensen. Our eyes were meeting one another’s, but not in a friendly manner. How had things fallen apart so quickly?

            “That’s what I wanted to hear.” Southwell said with a gleam of pride. Then, noticing the tension in the air, he awkwardly added, “I mean, in sentiment. Not—, not exactly.”

            Without taking his eyes off of me, Mortensen said, “We’ll be seeing you again very soon, Southwell. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think Cheshire and I have to have a private discussion.”

* * *

 

            “I can’t believe you’d do this to me, Mortensen.” I grumbled, sitting on Mortensen’s couch, having finally arrived home after the quietest and most tense drive I had yet endured with the detective.

            Mortensen, staring at the windows (or rather, at the curtains covering the windows, since he had not moved them for some reason), did not even turn to look at me as he barked: “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

            I decided to rant. “You know that Southwell won’t work with me. Even so, you force us to work together? Wouldn’t you rather just work with someone you know you can trust?”

            I knew I had said something wrong with I heard Mortensen, as he straightened his slouched back, take in a deep breath. Quickly, he turned to face me, fury written across his face, and my heart skipped a beat from sudden fear.  
            “Someone I know I can trust?” He asked. “ _You?_ ” He began to march closer, but to my relief, remained out of arm’s reach. “I can’t trust you _for shit_ , Cheshire! _Every single goddamned thing_ you do is _fucking suspicious!_ ”

            Now very irritated, I stood up, shooting my arms out at my sides to express my frustration. “ _Suspicious?!_ ” I snapped, unable to believe that he had the nerve to call me that to my bloody face. “And would you care to explain how, exactly, you find me to be that? I’m only standing here making a bunch of bloody observations!”

            Mortensen tilted his head to the side somewhat. He was so cross with me, it seemed, that he was beginning to smile somewhat unconsciously. “Observations,” he began, “that no uninvolved person should be able to make! Not to mention, out of the blue, you suddenly can’t make these observations!”

            “It doesn’t mean that I’m involved!” I argued. “Christ’s sake, Mortensen, why are you so beastly all of the sudden?”

            “What does that even mean?!” Mortensen demanded, seemed offended. Rightfully so, I suppose, but he did not appear to know that I was saying he was irrationally angry.

            “Recently, you seem so bleeding hell-bent on getting rid of me! And don’t you dare deny it! I’ve seen those sidelong glares you give me!” I shouted, done with bottling my feelings. Mortensen was silent, his mouth sewn shut in a flat line. His hands, curled into fists so tightly that his knuckles were white, trembled, and his nostrils were flaring. The lethal stare in his eyes should have been a hint for me to back down, but I was uncontrollable.  
           “Give it to me straight, Mortensen!” I screamed. “Do you want me to leave?! Just tell me! I’ll _gladly_ bugger off if you so _desperately_ want me gone! Am I no longer needed?!”

            Suddenly, Mortensen exploded into a rage. Nearly lunging forward, he roared at me, “When have I ever needed you?! I never needed you, and I never will! _YOU’RE USELESS TO ME!_ ”

            Mortensen’s words shattered my defence, and I stood there for a long moment, my face falling from anger to a blank gaze in the detective’s general direction. For some reason, I had not expected him to respond like that. I had expected a whole “that’s not what I meant and you know it” spiel, but… instead, he confirmed that he felt like I was weighing him down. My heart ached. I hurt. Badly. Stunned, I merely sat back down on the couch, not really knowing what else to do.

            Mortensen, still standing almost across the room from me, took a few deep breaths. The redness and wrath began to disappear, and to replace it came a look of guilt and regret. Ashamed by his words, he turned away from me for a moment. A deep silence filled the room for a minute or so.  
            “I’m sorry.” Mortensen began, gently. “I didn’t mean that. I—I’ve just…” He shook his head, sighing quietly as if he knew his excuse for his behaviour was silly and futile. “I’ve just been really stressed out. This case is messing with me almost as bad as it’s… messing with you.” The detective then turned to look at me, his expression very apologetic.

            In truth, I could not find it in myself to meet his eyes at that moment, though I knew they were undoubtedly softer. Somehow, I was scared of him. I felt that he was unpredictable, that I no longer knew him. Something had changed.

            Noticing that I was now afraid of him, Mortensen tried to fix it by slowly approaching and sitting beside me. He reached his hand out to touch my arm, but I flinched, so he pulled back.

            “I—I’m really sorry.” Mortensen continued. Something in his voice let me know that the apology was genuine, and slowly, I began to relax. “Please don’t leave. I…” He fidgeted somewhat, having trouble finding the words to say what he wanted to say. “I need you, alright? I—I hate to admit it, but… I do.”

            I took a deep breath through my nostrils before deciding to, stupidly, ignore my instincts (which told me that Mortensen needed help) once again. “Mortensen…” I mumbled, “I’m not going to leave… just so long as you don’t scream at me again…”

            Whether he realized it or not, Mortensen gave in to his urge to grab my arm, which he did so tightly at first, but upon processing that I had agreed to stay, his grip softened, and he began to gently rub part of my arm with his thumb.  
            “Hey,” He crooned, “whatever you want…” Though I could tell by his body language that he wanted to embrace me, Mortensen resisted his impulse and instead stammered, “D—do you, do you want some, uh, cocoa?”

            “Sounds splendid.” I mumbled. Mortensen got up and went into the kitchen, but not before gently patting my shoulder. He was not very good at apologizing, but he had clearly tried to the best of his ability, and I could tell that he realized he had gone too far. Still, I had a bad feeling in my gut. There were things that Mortensen was still keeping me in the dark on. He knew the culprit for our current case, I could tell. Why could he not tell me?

            The case had hardly begun, and already it was putting a strain on Mortensen and I. We should have dropped the case. If I had known how much worse things would become, maybe I would have at least gone into the kitchen and held the detective close, but alas, I did not.


	24. Chapter 24

            When I awoke on the morning of the 8th, it was not due to Mortensen sleepwalking. Without getting up, I yawned and stretched in bed. When I finally did sit up, it took me what seemed like a few minutes before I noticed that not only was Mortensen not in the room, but the bedroom door was wide open, as well. It was not necessarily that I was concerned, but more that I was confused, but still I reluctantly walked downstairs.

            Floorboards creaking in the living room made me walk past the dividing wall, and I found Mortensen pacing in circles beside the couch, closer to the computer desk. If he noticed me, he did not give me any indications, as his eyes remained distant, staring at nothing, and his terrified expression did not even waver. His legs wobbled somewhat as he walked, giving me the impression that he was absolutely exhausted.

            “Mortensen?” I asked. Mortensen did not respond, his hands firmly shoved into the pockets of his blue robe. One of his striped purple socks was half off, but this was not particularly unusual. Hesitantly, I moved further into the room, standing in front of the couch now.  
            “Uh, Mortensen… Is…Is everything alright with you?”

            “Everything’s fine, Chesh…!” Mortensen told me, obviously not fine given his shaky voice.

            Not wanting to start something, I said, “Right, then… Have… Have you managed to sleep at all?”

            With a wry smirk, the detective admit: “Not a wink.”

            “What’s the matter?” I questioned, crossing my arms. It was colder in the room than it normally was.

            “What’s the matter?” Mortensen repeated in a confused tone, as if he was wondering why I had asked that. He feigned a smile once more before continuing: “Nothing’s the matter…! I’m fine. I’m absolutely positively A-OK.”

            “It really is blatant that you’re lying to me, Mortensen.” I told him, my brows furrowed in concern. “Buuut, you’re well aware of that, aren’t you?”

            “Yip.” Mortensen confessed, sounding somewhat like a small dog.

            “And exactly how long ago did you begin to pace around in a big circle like that?”

            “I don’t know.” He said. “A long time, I guess. I lost track.” Beaming at me in a way that expressed not pleasure, but intense stress, he happily blurted: “I don’t want to think!”

            “Fair enough.” I responded, hiding my deep worry for Mortensen’s mental health. First the mood swings, then the lack of trust, and now he seemed horrified by nothing, so horrified that he was crossing the threshold back into nervous glee. “Do you want to sit down?”

            “Nope,” He replied.

            “You look terrified.”

            “Yep.” He did not bother to argue.

            I paused for a moment, not knowing what to do. I could not just let him continue to pace; I will admit that I was scared of what he may do without my intervening.  
            “Do you…” I narrowed my eyes, knowing that my offer would likely be shot down, but I continued anyway; “want a hug…?”

            “You touch me,” Mortensen said sharply, “and you get to feel my fist penetrating your pleural cavity.”

            “Duly noted.” I concluded, taking my slight amusement at Mortensen’s uncharacteristically-worded reply and running with it, though not very far. Then again, I reasoned, maybe it was not as uncharacteristic as I thought, because the detective did seem to have a lot of medical textbooks for some reason. Perhaps he had wanted to become a doctor at some point.

            “It’s after me, Chesh.” Mortensen told me as I sat down.

            “‘It’, you say?” I looked at him, deciding to play therapist for him if it would help him unwind. “So, what exactly is this ‘it’ you’re referring to?”

            “It.” He said, no longer bothering to seem happy. He was now showing his true feelings in that moment; he was scared and anxious. “You know.” He seemed almost desperate, and appeared to be under the impression that I already knew what he meant. “ _It._ ”

            I shot him a judging stare in an attempt to scold him into explaining further, but he was not looking at me for more than a split second at a time, so he failed to notice.  
            “Mortensen,” I crooned, “I’m going to say this to you as gently as I possibly can…” Going against my word, I flatly and honestly said, “I have absolutely no idea what it is you’re babbling about.”

            Seeming slightly more agitated and ever so closer to his tipping point, Mortensen announced: “It wants me. It’s always wanted me. I don’t know for what, but it wants me and _fuck_ if I’m not horrified.” I truly thought he was paranoid over nothing. Hell, if I had only known what he meant…

            “Mortensen, try to calm down.” I told him, dismissing his (what I thought to be at the time) childish fear. I, however, wanted to sink into the sofa when Mortensen shot me a wild glare.

            “Calm down?” He asked. Louder, he repeated, “ _Calm down???_ ” Then he shrilly continued with: “I _can’t_ calm down! It’s after me, and it’s breathing down my fucking neck, and—” His hands shot up to his hair, which he began to tug at, as he suddenly belted down a scream before shouting, “ _I CAN’T TAKE IT!!_ ”

            “ _Mortensen!_ ” I barked in a scolding manner, not wanting to scare him by shouting his name in a concerned voice but not knowing how else to snap him back to his senses. Mortensen stopped pacing, and slowly his arms dropped to his sides. He turned to face me after a moment, and the blank look on his face was no help in soothing my own anxiety.

            “Alright,” He said breathlessly yet calmly, “I’m done with my psychological meltdown. Heh,” He looked at me with his eyes half shut and his brows furrowed, though a wide grin spread across his face, and soon after, he widened his dark-ringed eyes and happily demanded to know: “Want something to eat?!”

            I could not help but gulp. “For some reason,” I divulged, “I am not at all comforted by your quick recovery.” Could it even be called that, though?

* * *

 

            A few hours later, after Mortensen had finally begun to relax and return to normal, the detective and I were called to return to Calhoon’s office in Elizabeth. I offered to drive, seeing that Mortensen was rather exhausted, but he denied my offer, again insisting that it was illegal and that he never should have let me get my “grubby little paws” on the steering wheel in the first place.

            During the half hour drive we had repeated about four times within the past week, I decided to speak.

            “So,” I began, “I’ve been curious about this since the first day I set foot in your home, and I just need to know. Why do you have so many textbooks?”

            Mortensen stifled a laugh and lowered his head for a moment. When he raised it again, he was wearing a flustered smile that I had not seen in what felt like forever. However, he did not immediately answer.

            “Did you want to work in a different profession?” I questioned.

            Mortensen shook his head dismissively. “Well, I…” He chuckled nervously. “It’s just that…” With a deep breath, he finally spoke. “I wanted to be a doctor once. For a while. I’ve had a weird fascination with medical shit since I was a little squirt. I’m a particularly big fan of biology.”

            The information was unexpected, but it explained a bit about why Mortensen seemed so comfortable around cadavers. “You’ve got pharmaceutical books, too.” I mentioned.

            Scratching the back of his head nervously as he stopped at a red light, Mortensen simply said, “I like drugs.” Then he laughed and explained, “ _Legal_ drugs. I mean, I like them. I don’t abuse them. Fuck, this is awkward. Why do I suck at talking?”

            I could not help but smile as I wondered what I was to do with the goofball beside me. “However… If you wanted to become a doctor…” I looked at him. “Then why are you a detective? Why did you not go into medicine?”

            Mortensen’s smile shrunk a bit, and he seemed wistful yet regretful. “Couldn’t afford college.” He said. “By the time I could, I didn’t give a shit. Emilie talked me into becoming a cop, so I did.” He shrugged. “Easier that way, I guess.”

            I turned my head away from him and stared at nothing in particular. Given the bad nature of the current case, I wished in that moment that Mortensen had not given up on his aspiration of becoming a doctor.

            “My mother thought I’d fail, anyway.”

            I returned my gaze to him. “What?” I asked in disbelief. “That can’t be true.”

            “Oh, yeah?” He scoffed, starting to drive again. “Let me tell ya, Chesh; mothers aren’t all great. Dawn, my so-called maternal figure, was _not_ a very good mother.” He glanced in the rear-view mirror. “I’m not trying to tell a sob story, but I’ll be honest. She neglected the shit out of me. Spent most of my ‘childhood’ telling me that I was an accident that I was going to go nowhere in life.”

            “Jesus Christ,” I murmured. Was that really true?

            “That’s why I ran away. Emilie and I ran off to Lyon and eloped in 1986.” The way he said this was sly, as if he was confident that his choice had been not only the best for himself, but the worst for his mother.

            “Do you know where she is now?” I asked. “Your mother?”

            He laughed. “Fuck yeah, I know where she is. She’s six feet underground in Texas, in a funeral plot beside her parents… which is kind of funny, because she fucking hated them about as much as she hated me.”

            “How did she die?” I asked without thinking.

            “Err…” Mortensen thought for a moment. “Well, I mean, I assume she was axed to death. I was assigned to the case of her death, y’know. Saw her corpse with my own two eyes. Never been happier.” He finished the statement with a small giggle.

            While I was saddened by what I had heard of Mortensen’s past, I realized I had never heard him mention another parent.  
            “What of your father?” I inquired innocently. “Surely he was there. Right?”

            Mortensen’s happy mood instantly soured, and he looked down at the floor of the vehicle. For a long moment, he did not speak, and I realized that I had been rude to mention his father when he clearly had no intention of speaking of him.

            “Forgive me.” I mumbled. “I did not mean to upset you.”

            “No, it’s fine.” Mortensen told me, lifting his head. “It’s just that… Well, my father’s a bit of a sensitive topic for me.”

            “I understand.” I said, as I felt the same for my own father.

* * *

 

            “Are we late?” Mortensen asked as he and I stepped into Calhoon’s office. In the room, besides Calhoon, were the Callahan brothers and Agent Southwell. Mortensen approached Calhoon’s working bench, where the body of the victim had been before, so I followed, standing to his right, closer to Callahan, who stood at one of the ends of the bench.

            Callahan smirked teasingly at Mortensen. “You really think we’d start without ya?” He asked. When Mortensen gave him no response other than a tired and hardnosed stare, he became a bit more serious out of sheer awkwardness. “Alright. Sooo…” He turned his attention to Southwell, who stood across from him. “How are we doing this?”

            “Okay,” Southwell began with confidence, “well, I think I may have found out where our precious little vampires hide out.”

            I wanted to punch myself in the face.

            After a very embarrassing pause, Calhoon suspiciously asked, “Vampire?”

            “He’s for some reason convinced that the culprit is a vampire,” I explained, frustrated, “because the victim has no blood.”

            Calhoon slowly, unenthusiastically, nodded his head. “Ah…” was all he could manage to say.

            “Honestly, dude,” Callahan said to Southwell, “that’s probably a bit of a stretch.”

            Southwell let out a frustrated sigh. “Does it really matter?” He snapped. “Guys, I’m telling you I might have figured out where this guy chills, and you’re focusing on what I call him.”

            “Where does he go?” Mortensen asked.

            “That’s more like it!” Southwell beamed.

            Impatient and frustrated that Mortensen would still be so bloody eager to hear Southwell’s suggestions, I rolled my eyes as obviously as I could. “Ugh.” I groaned. “I do believe I’m going to pass on this one. I’ll be in the waiting room if anyone needs me.” I turned to leave, and I felt Mortensen try to discreetly grab my arm and tug me back, but he just barely missed, and I heard him quietly stomp his foot in exasperation.

            Once I was in the lobby, I closed the door behind myself, but kept it open ever so slightly so I could hear what was being said. While I did not want Southwell to believe I agreed with his plans, I felt it would be easier to hear what he actually had in mind if he was not aware that I was listening, so that he could feel free to say things without thinking I may interject.

            “Whatever, let him bail then.” Southwell said as an aside. He then seemed to get back on track. “Here.”

            “Crimson Cove Laboratories?” Callahan asked, sounding somewhat sceptical. “Isn’t that place as locked up as Area 51?”

            “Obviously not if this creature’s escaping.” Southwell replied.

            My attention was torn from the conversation in Calhoon’s office by a thumping sound. Curious as to what was making the noise, I looked around. There was nothing there. Another thump, however, drew my eyes to a moderately large box on the floor against one of the walls. My heart began to pick up its pace as I began to slowly inch closer to the box. What was inside? It was always said that curiosity killed the cat… When I got close enough, now rather nervous, I extended my hand toward the box. Suddenly, it burst open. Panicked and startled, I emit a short cry.

            “Cheshire!” I heard Mortensen shout from within Calhoon’s office, but by then I had collapsed to my knees, as I had seen what was in the box. The contents stared up at me with wide blue eyes.

            _It was a box full of tiny white kittens._

            My heart melted as I scooped all five kittens out of the box, and they nearly circled me, all meowing and pawing at my coat. One of them crawled up onto my lap and emit the driest, more adorable meow I had ever heard, and I bit my lower lip since there was nothing else I could do to satisfy how cute this fluffy little creature was.

            I heard the office door fly open, and everyone in the office rushed into the lobby. I cared not if they saw this side of me, for I was too busy falling in love.

            “Um…” Mortensen muttered. “What?”

            “Oh yeah,” Calhoon chuckled. “I forgot to mention. Uh, I found that little box outside earlier. It's been raining—”—he had meant to say “snowing” but I did not bother to correct him—“—so I brought it inside.”

            “These kittens are mine now.” I boldly announced.

            “Wh—what?” Mortensen stuttered.

            “I want them.” I said, raising my voice a bit.

            “Chesh, we—” The detective stumbled, “We can’t keep cats—”

            “I _WANT_ THEM.” I nearly shouted, whipping around to face my partner as a kitten that had crawled up my arm licked my cheekbone.

            Amused, Callahan asked, “Just _how much_ do you want these cats, Cheshire?”

            “Yes.” I replied, turning back to the semi-circle of cats and not bothering to say anything more.

            “He _really_ wants these cats.” Callahan whispered (presumably to Mortensen), and though I could still hear him since it was a very small lobby, I opted to instead focus on the multiple meows of the munchkin kittens.

            After a minute or so of silence, Mortensen finally approached me. I turned my head, looking up at him over my shoulder.

            “ _Mortensen?_ Could we keep them?” I pleaded. “ _Pleeeaaase?_ ”

            The detective knelt beside me and shook his head. Before he spoke, he reached his hand toward one of the kittens. The cat took a whiff of Mortensen’s fingers and backed away, probably because it smelled cigarettes.  
            “Cheshire,” Mortensen began, and already I could feel my heart aching, because his tone was suggesting that he was denying my request. “We can’t afford to take care of them. Hell, we probably can’t afford to take care of _one_ kitten, let alone five.”

            “But…” I pouted, not about to be defeated so easily. “I mean, we live together! If we just combine our incomes. We could raise only one of them, just one. Together.” I theorized affectionately, flashing Mortensen what was probably a very unusual smile. When he did not speak, I began to ramble. “And it’d be no problem. Right?” Still, no reply, and I began to grow frantic. “ _Right? PLEASE_ say yes!”

            Mortensen chuckled a bit, appearing flustered. “I can’t help but think that it’s not exactly a _cat_ that you want…” He mumbled. I did not get what he meant by that until much later, so I simply turned my attention back to the cats. They were so cute. Why was life so cruel? I wanted them all. I wanted to raise them like little fluffy children. Saddened, I let out a deep sigh.

            “The fact that I cannot keep them breaks my weak little heart,” I moaned, “but their tiny meows are just—”—A kitten meowed—“—too much—to resist…! _Ooh_ , Mortensen!” I exclaimed, holding up the cat in my arms and showing it to the detective. “Look at their cute, stubby little legs…!” I spoke like I was talking to an infant due to how cute the munchkin cat was, and could not stop myself from emitting a squeal of felicity.

            Mortensen flushed a bit. “Cheshire,” He told me, “you’re freaking me out, man.”

            When the detective stood up and began to walk across the room, back to Callahan, I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. Doing so was difficult, but soon, I was beginning to get a grip.

            “Say, Callahan?” I heard Mortensen ask.

            “Yeah, Mortensen?” Callahan responded.

            “Do you by any chance have Florence’s number on you?”

            If I was not serious before, I became so once I heard mention of Officer Florence. Oh, Hell. Last thing I needed was Florence on the case, too! Surely he would side with Southwell and accuse me, which would cost me more of Mortensen’s trust. Still, arguing would almost damage his trust in me more, so I grudgingly bit my tongue.

            “Mmmaybe…” Callahan slurred in thought briefly. “Why do you ask? You don’t _really_ think we need this help, do you?”

            Anxiously, I pet one of the cats. Mortensen, please let it drop… Of course, I could never be so lucky.

            “I just think it might be in our best interest to get as many people on this case as we can.” Mortensen said. He sounded confident in his decision. Almost… _too_ confident. I shook my suspicion off. How silly to suspect Mortensen of having an ulterior motive! There would be no good to be found in a situation where both of us begin losing trust in the other. Still, something was not sitting right; something was giving me a really bad vibe. I just did not know what it was.

* * *

 

            On the 13th, Mortensen left to meet Officer Feliz Florence at a local coffee shop. In the meantime, I was left to my own devices, alone in the home we shared together. I had a lot of time to think, and think I did… Unfortunately, I started to think of an awkward subject.

            I could not keep my past from Mortensen forever. Perhaps, if I revealed the fact that I came from the Victorian era, Mortensen would trust me a bit more. Either that, or he would lose a significant amount of trust in me. Probably the latter, I figured, but still, I felt like I owed him honesty. I cared about him a lot, and he had opened up to me about his past, so it only felt right for me to open up about mine. Maybe he would understand. He was particularly open-minded. Would he believe me?

            As I waited anxiously for Mortensen’s return, I repeatedly talked myself in and out of making my past known to the detective. It was not that I feared I could not trust him with the information, but that I worried he may deem me insane for telling him something that sounded so bloody absurd. I began to pace. I was so nervous. Please, I prayed, please let him believe me.

            I was standing with my head against the wall beside the end table furthest from the door when Detective Mortensen finally returned.

            “Chesh, I’m home.” He called, apparently not having noticed me yet. I was fully dressed, coat and all, though I could not really explain why. I turned to face him, and when our eyes met, his face ever so slightly twisted into concern.

            “Oh, M—Mortensen…” I tried not to stammer, but it was no use. Undoubtedly my face was flushed, though that probably meant that I looked pale to the detective.

            Stepping further into the room, not bothering to remove his shoes or coat, Mortensen asked, “Everything alright?”

            “Well, I, um…” I gulped and nervously rubbed my head. “I’ve got something I need to… confess, Mortensen…”

            I watched as Mortensen’s face twisted further into what then appeared to be a mixture of confusion and apprehension. His cheeks began to flush somewhat, though I could not figure out why.

            I gestured toward the couch and said, “You might want to sit down for this, and you’re not going to believe me at first, but I swear to whatever Gods exist that I’m _not_ lying.”

            Hesitantly, Mortensen took a seat on the couch. I stood before him, unconsciously digging my toe into the floor like a worried child.  
            “Cheshire,” Mortensen asked, his voice shaky, “wh—what’s this all about?”

            I exhaled deeply. “Look, Mortensen, I…” Could I really do this? “I’m struggling to find a way to say this. I’m not even certain at all if I really should.”

            Mortensen said nothing, staring up at me with wide eyes. His pupils were wide, but his body language expressed his uncertainty. I noticed a bead of sweat sliding down past his right temple. His eyes were fixated on me, which did nothing to help ease my dread.

            “I… I, um… I…” I tried repeatedly to find the courage to just spit what I had to say out, but I could not do it. I began to laugh, expressing my awkward feeling. “You’ll have to forgive me, oh my.” I sighed through a cautious smile. “It would appear as though I’m absolutely nervous saying this…”

            Mortensen’s breath hitched. His body language was now more welcoming, and he sat with his legs spread apart somewhat. He was blushing a bit. I felt bad, as I thought I was making him nervous. I really had to just get what I had to say out, lest I scare the living daylights out of him. First, though, I needed to make sure he was still listening.

            “Um… Mortensen?” I asked.

            Mortensen made a noise: some sort of quiet moan of anxious impatience. “F—f—for Christ’s sake, Cheshire,” He panted, “just spit it out already…”

            I tried to collect myself. “Alright then, I will, but… whatever you hear, please… Believe me.” After a few uneasy breaths, I finally managed to say, “I’m not from… ‘here’, per se.”

            Mortensen’s brow furrowed. “Um…?” He obviously had not expected me to say that.

            “I know that much is blatantly obvious,” I awkwardly continued, “but I’m not referring to America. I mean, I’m… not from the present day.” Inwardly, I was terrified. My inner voice was screaming for me to stop talking.

            Mortensen, more confused than I had anticipated, tilted his head to the side. His body language was becoming more and more reserved, as he had now crossed his left leg over his right. “I… don’t… understand…” He slowly said.

            “This might sound totally crazy, but remember when you brought up the old Eclipse Genocide and I was bothered by it?” I waited for Mortensen to nod or something, but he did nothing, so I continued. “It’s because I was actually around for it…You see, I was, uh, born in the year 1820…”

            Mortensen stared at me in complete silence. He was petrified, his jaw hanging agape, and all he did was blink every so often.

            With my fists balled up at my sides, I blurted, “My blood is now made of Eclipse Potion. It’s why I’m still alive and looking ‘young’ today…”

            The detective slowly lowered his head. Still, he said nothing, but now I was beginning to get the impression that I had upset him somehow.

            Not really thinking, I added, “This is why I’ve got these ‘skills’ of mine… Being alive for 200 years has its perks, I suppose…”

            “Mm-hmm…” Mortensen grumbled, his arms crossed and pulled close to his chest. He almost looked… embarrassed?

            “You don’t believe a word I’m saying right now, do you?” I asked apprehensively.

            “I have no reason not to…” He replied, his tone flat. “I mean, as you say: you’re never wrong…”

            I glanced to either side of myself, checking my peripheral vision for no particular reason other than to relieve my tension. Something went wrong. What did I say? Did I hurt his feelings? Was I really that absurd?  
            “Have… Have I said something wrong?” I questioned.

            “What makes you think that…?” The tone Mortensen used suggested that I was on the right track. I said something wrong. What did I say wrong?

            “You’re obviously upset.” I pointed out, hoping he would give me a hint.

            Recognizing the cue, Mortensen’s blush returned. He was flustered, for some reason. “It’s just… Heh heh, uh, for some reason, I just…” He straightened his slouched posture, but his eyes stared off toward the windows behind me. “I expected you to say,” he paused briefly to find the right words, “something different. And… I mean…” He suddenly shook his head rather rapidly. “N—n—n—never mind.” He began to stutter heavily. “I—I’m… I’m just,” he paused again, “kind of stupid right now.”

            “What was it you wanted me to say?” I was curious. I needed to know. If Mortensen wanted me to say something different, then perhaps I could say what he wanted me to say as well. I had no idea if I could or not, however, until he told me.

            Elliot took a deep inhale of air, and stared at me as he did so. He looked desperate to say something. Looking into his eyes, I for some reason was reminded of Oliver on the one occasion where we had nearly kissed. Though the look was triggering something in the back of my head, I dismissed it merely as myself just reading too far into his restlessness.

            “Nothing.” Mortensen finally said. “It was nothing. Just… Just forget it.”

            “Are you sure?” I countered, trying to sound casual. “You can tell me anything, you know that, right?”

            Mortensen said nothing, and instead only averted his eyes from mine. He seemed conflicted.

            “Right?” I repeated. I needed him to trust me. If he did not, I was unsure of what I would do. Would he ever arrest me? I began to worry inwardly.

            “Yeah…” Mortensen finally succumbed to my insistence, albeit with great reluctance.

            For a long moment, both of us were silent. Just to be safe, I decided to change the subject back to what I had begun the conversation with.  
            “You seem surprisingly open to my confession.” I offered the subject carefully.

            Mortensen, starting to relax, shrugged. “Something’s always seemed sort of off with you, Cheshire.” He told me. “I—I can’t say I entirely believe it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you _were_ from the Victorian era.”

            A wave of relief washed over me, but no amount of comfort could sooth the awkward feeling in my heart. I was missing something, something big that I should have noticed. I hid my inner conflict, however, and announced, “Well, I appreciate your honesty. I don’t expect you to believe me right away. In fact, I don’t know if I expect you to _ever_ believe me.”

            Mortensen scoffed. “Yeah,” He groaned, “don’t keep your hopes up for that.”

            What had I missed?


	25. Chapter 25

            On the 14th, I was abruptly awoken by the sound of Detective Elliot Mortensen falling down the bloody stairs again. However, as he managed to do this every other week, I was not particularly worried, so I allowed myself to drift back into a semi-sleep state. When I heard Mortensen quietly step into the room, though, I opened my eyes a crack and looked at the detective.

            “Cheshire?” He asked, almost cautiously.

            “Yes?” I asked with a dry, tired voice.

            “We’ve got to go back to Calhoon’s office.”

            “Did something come up?” I sat up.

            “Apparently something bad happened.” Mortensen told me, seeming somewhat worried. “Simon didn’t tell me much else other than that.”

            Suddenly, I was also becoming a little bit uneasy. “Did his voice suggest anything?”

            Mortensen shrugged, his face twisted with anxiety. “I don’t know… He kind of sounded like he wanted to be vague, like he didn’t want to scare me away or some shit…”

            “Scare _you_ away?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. “I do not think I have ever seen you scared away from a case by something, Detective.”

            “That’s, ironically, what’s scaring me away now.” Mortensen admit. “If Simon feels like he has to be careful with what he says to me, then it must have been something really bad, Cheshire.” He said to me, repeating, “ _Really_ bad,” for emphasis.

            “What will we do?” I inquired.

            “I guess we have to go. I’ll probably get in trouble if I back out now.”

            I really wish he had thought differently. Writing this now, my inner voice screams at me in a vain attempt to try to change the past. I should have changed his mind, but instead, oblivious of what was to come from my unknown mistakes, I agreed with him.

* * *

 

            The second we walked into Calhoon’s office, I felt that something was very wrong. When Mortensen and I entered, all eyes in the room solemnly turned onto the detective, even the eyes of Officer Feliz Florence, who was present this time. I began to question just what had happened. Obviously, it affected Mortensen in some way…

            “Hey.” Mortensen greeted, trying to remain casual as he and I took our regular spots around Calhoon’s operating table in the centre of the room. “Everything alright here? What happened?”

            “There’s been more murders.” Inspector General Simon Callahan told us (or was it only directed at Mortensen?).

            “Are you serious?” Mortensen turned his gaze onto Callahan, sounding rather surprised.

            Callahan averted his eyes from Mortensen’s the second they met. This was a bad sign to me, since Callahan was an open and friendly person, so avoiding eye contact seemed to symbolize a lack of trust.  
            “There were a couple of casualties…” He said, “all children. The bodies have been moved, but the crime scene is still intact.”

            “My God.” I remarked. The culprit was turning to killing children? Why?

            “The ‘bright’ side,” Southwell began, and it took me a moment to realize that he was not being sarcastic, “is that we managed to get some pictures of the Phantom, and he left some things behind this time.”

            “‘The Phantom’?” Mortensen questioned. He clearly held the nickname in distaste, but, I wondered, why did he care? “Is _that_ what you’re calling it now?”

            It registered in my head that he had used the term “it”. His words from before rang in my head.  
            “ _It’s after me, Chesh._ ” “ _It. You know._ It.”

            “Mortensen,” Simon scolded, uncharacteristically serious, “focus.” He extended his hand to Mortensen, handing him some photographs. “Look at these pictures…”

            Reluctantly, Mortensen took the photos and looked at them, holding them so I could see them as well. As I stared at the first picture, a gear in my head began to turn. The image was blurry, distorted, dark, and lacked contrast, but something was setting off an alarm bell in my head.

            “Yeah?” Mortensen spoke, not seeing whatever point Simon had by bringing the photos up.

            “Doesn’t he look…” Callahan squirmed uncomfortably, trying to find a delicate way to word his vague explanation: “ _familiar?_ ”

            Mortensen said nothing for a moment, flipping the two pictures in his hands so the second one was in front. In the second picture, the culprit was looking up at the camera. I squinted. Finally, I realized what was setting me off.

            _I recognized that face._

            I slowly turned my gaze from the picture to Mortensen’s face. My gut instinct told me his facial structure was the same. The fact that he looked somewhat uncomfortable did not help me reasoning suggest otherwise. My God. _Was he the culprit?_

            “I… I don’t follow.” Mortensen said. His uncertain tone did not match the slightly malicious expression he wore.

            “Mortensen, he… He looks just like you…!” I said, realizing why everyone had looked at him the way they did when we walked in; _they were thinking the same thing!_ Hearing me say that, Mortensen flashed me a look of what was almost a demand to shut up.

            “He left behind his mask, for one thing.” Callahan announced, revealing that he held the mask in his right hand. He changed his hold on it, gripping either end with both hands, and looked down at it for a moment. “Not a single print or anything on it, so…” He glanced up at Mortensen. “Do you mind?”

            “Mind if…?” Mortensen began. Callahan moved toward Mortensen, so I stepped out of the way, not taking my eyes off of the detective. My mind was reeling. This could not be right. As Callahan began to raise the mask over Mortensen’s head, the taller man flinched and exclaimed, “Hey, what are you—” He stopped speaking, however, when the inspector general snapped the mask over his face and stepped back.

            _The mask was a perfect fit._

            For what felt like an eternity, we were all still and silent. Mortensen looked like he wanted to run, but to be fair, I probably did as well.

            “It isn’t true,” my inner voice kept repeating, trying to drill the words into my head out of sheer denial. “This isn’t happening.”

            “Holy crap, I…” Callahan murmured in shock. “I didn’t think it would fit…!”

            It did not make sense for Mortensen to be the culprit. Sure, he had been somewhat emotionally unstable recently, but I believed that I knew him well enough to say, with confidence, that he would _not_ hurt anyone, especially not a child. At least, not without reason… Did he have a reason?

            “ _Dawn, my so-called maternal figure, was_ not _a very good mother._ ” Mortensen’s words from the previous day returned to me. “ _Saw her corpse with my own two eyes. Never been happier._ ” He had been neglected as a child and was happy to see his own mother’s axed-up corpse. That did not make him capable of murder, though, did it? The odds of him suddenly snapping after over forty years of sanity did not seem plausible to me.

            “H—hey,” Mortensen stammered, “get this thing off of me.”

            Callahan quickly took back the mask. He seemed horrified. “Mortensen…”

            “What?” The detective asked impatiently. Noticing Callahan’s face, he took a look at the others. When he saw that they were all (with the exception of the taller Callahan brother, who looked confused, sure, but not so much nervous) looking at him with the same scared suspicious, he turned his gaze to me. I tried to hide my expression, but he caught it, and only then did it seem to dawn on him how terrible this situation was for him.  
            “What is it?” He asked again, beginning to sound apprehensive. “Why are you all staring at me like that? You don’t really think that just because you pulled a Cinderella on me that _I’m_ the killer, do you?”

            “Well, I mean… The guy does seem to look just like you…” Callahan hesitantly pointed out.

            Finally, an expression of terror appeared on Mortensen’s face as he realized that he was actually being accused of murder. “You can’t be serious!” I could not stand by and allow this to happen any longer.

            “Hold on a tick!” I shouted, demanding control of the situation. I turned my head to Southwell. “When exactly were these pictures taken?”

            “This morning,” The young CIA Agent replied, “at around 2 AM.”

            “It couldn’t be Mortensen, then.” I replied with a veil of confidence. “He and I were asleep at the time.” This, however, was not the case. Mortensen had not gone to sleep last night, to my knowledge, but I would have heard the front door open and shut if he left the house, of that I was sure.

            Southwell’s eyes narrowed, now suspicious of me yet again. “If you were asleep,” He questioned, “then how could you know if Mortensen was, too?”

            The young man had a point, I supposed. I thought about telling the truth, but realized that there were so many excuses that could be used, such as Mortensen perhaps being very quiet and careful not to wake me with the front door, or the detective slipping out of the house some other way. I needed to stretch the truth. So, I said the only thing that occurred to me in that moment.

            “Because I, good sir, am a light-sleeper. I would have easily awoken had Mortensen let go of me.”

            To be entirely honest, I am still not sure why that was the first excuse that I thought of.

            Elliot’s face went from pale to beet red in an instant, and his body went stiff as a board. I could almost imagine that every hair on his body was standing on end and that his heart had likely skipped at least a few beats from the shock of my words. Callahan, on the other hand, nearly lurched forward in a burst of laughter, but he contained it, only unable to hide his resisted smirk.

            “Wait, what?” Callahan snickered.

            “Cheshire, what the fuck?!” Mortensen hissed quietly.

            I whispered back, “Look, Mortensen, do you wish to escape this false accusation scenario or not?”

            “I’m gonna fuckin’ _kill_ you!” He turned his attention back to Callahan and nervously tried to explain an alternate meaning for my words. “Heh heh, uh, silly Cheshire… I—liste—I think he meant if I had opened the door? It… It squeaks, you see…”

            Callahan slowly nodded, though it was clear that he was not willing to accept Mortensen’s excuse. “ _Uh-huh_ ,” He hummed, amused sarcasm thick in his voice.

            The slight shift in Mortensen’s facial expression, suggested that he was trying to get back on topic as he pleaded: “Look, Callahan. You know better than anyone that I wouldn’t do something like this.”

            Realizing that he had to be serious again, Callahan frowned. “I know.” He admit. “I just have to play it safe…”

            “You said the crime scene was still intact?” The detective inquired.

            “Yeah.”

            “Take me to it. If this guy _thinks_ like me as much as he _looks_ like me, I should be able to find some more evidence.”

            I should have said something. Allowing Mortensen to go on a wild goose chase after what appeared to be his own bloody doppelganger was a bad idea from the get-go. Still, no one argued. What a mistake we made…

* * *

 

            The crime scene was the lobby of a building, and immediately as we stepped inside, I was struck by a brick wall made of the smell of blood. It was not necessarily that the building was abandoned, but abruptly I realized that the setup made no sense. The lobby was filled with blood, but what were a bunch of children doing in a place like this at two in the morning, no less without any adult supervision? Finally it began to dawn on me that we may very well have come all this way for nothing. Was it possible that the children had been killed elsewhere?

            As the Callahan brothers took a look around the left side of the lobby, Southwell checked out the right, leaving Mortensen to just look around the centre of the room. The detective looked at the floor, slowly moving his head up. Clearly, he did not see anything, as the only two things in the centre of the room were a glass coffee table (for some reason???) and some sort of big mechanical rectangular container that I had seen similar contraptions to elsewhere but did not know the name of or what function they served.

            For a brief moment, Mortensen’s tired brown eyes met mine, and I used the moment to gesture him to come over. The detective needed to find _something_ , otherwise he would be doomed. I just hoped my hunch was correct… though, looking back on it, I wish it had not been.

            “I feel like there could be something in that big box over there.” I told Mortensen, pointing at the rectangular dispenser. Mortensen stifled a laugh.

            “You mean the vending machine?” He asked teasingly, finally giving me a name for the machine.

            I pouted and crossed my arms, feeling somewhat embarrassed at being corrected (though I was thankful to know what the object was called), and mumbled, “Whatever.”

            As Mortensen headed for the vending machine, I crouched, beginning to look under chairs near the door we had entered through. I was not finding anything, so I merely pretended to keep looking doggedly as I thought. Dr. Calhoon and Officer Florence had decided not to follow us to the crime scene, which pretty much proved my idea that they were essentially useless to the case. Southwell and the taller Callahan brother were almost equally unnecessary, but Mortensen and Callahan would likely demand that they stay, much to my frustration.

            Mortensen suddenly gasped, and I turned my attention to him, as did Southwell and the Callahan twins.

            “Mortensen?” I asked as I walked over to him. “What did you find?”

            “Haah…” Slowly, Mortensen began to chuckle, which quickly grew into a fit of hysterical laughter, his body trembling. I stood still, not really knowing how to react. It was not a pleasant laugh Mortensen was making, and honestly, I was stunned because I was rather frightened.

            “Mortensen? Is everything alright?” I meekly questioned, all I could manage.

            “My father…” He replied, sounding frenzied, and when he turned toward me, I saw that his facial expression matched his frantic tone. He held tightly, with both hands, onto a card. Had it come from the vending machine…? “My _father…!_ ”

            I had not noticed that Callahan was standing behind me until he spoke, giving me a further jolt.  
            “Mortensen, what are you talking about?” He asked, sounding somewhat scolding though it was obvious that he was just concerned. “Relax, dude!” I glanced at the Inspector General and felt the urge to shove a sock or something into his mouth, as I had previously learned that “relax” was a bit of a trigger word for Mortensen, but it was too late.

            “RELAX?!” Mortensen snapped. “YOU’RE TELLING ME TO _RELAX?!_ ”

            “Mortensen, stop.” I barked and extended my hand, which he flinched at. “ _Give me_ the card.”

            With shaky hands, the detective reluctantly gave me the card, which I took. It was a French identification card not entirely unlike Mortensen’s. The photograph on the card was of a man who looked a lot like Mortensen, which was understandable, since his name was apparently “Charlot Mortensen”, and Elliot was insisting the man was directly related to him.

            Without looking up from the card, I asked, “Is this man your father, Mortensen?”

            The only response I got from Mortensen was a hysterical nod as he pulled his arms close to his chest, obviously very frightened and distraught.

            “Oh, shit…” Callahan murmured. What was he making of this?

            I needed to take control of the situation, so I straightened my posture, puffing my chest a bit to seem dominant. I whirled around, turning toward Callahan to speak instead, as expressing dominance to Mortensen would do me no good.  
           “Alright then.” I announced. “Callahan, we need to talk. Mortensen, I’ll want to talk with you afterward.”

* * *

 

            “I don’t believe we should keep pressing on with this.” I told Callahan after he sat down at the table in another room at the crime scene. He sat across from me as I stood on the other side of the table, in front of the door, and he looked up at me. Hearing my words, he frowned and narrowed his eyes.

            “What do you mean by that, exactly?” He inquired somewhat sarcastically. Clearly, he already knew what I meant, he was just toying with me.

            “This case we’re on.” I replied honestly, as I was not often one to sugar-coat the truth. “It’s no longer safe to continue pursuing it.”

            Callahan leaned forward, laying his arms onto the table. “With all due respect, Dr. Cheshire,” He told me, “if you two drop another case, we’ll _all_ get in trouble.”

            I placed my gloved palms flat onto the table, getting somewhat into Callahan’s face. “Isn’t it worth it to save Mortensen?” I asked. “He’s _suffering_ Callahan, can’t you see that? If we keep going with this case, he’s going to _snap like a twig!_ ”

            “What am I supposed to do?” He countered. “This is the biggest case we’ve had in a long time, Cheshire. If we give up, people will die. _Lots_ of people. I _need_ you two!”

            I frowned and remained silent for a moment. He had a point… However, at that moment, my concern was not with others; though I had vowed to save anyone I could from demise, Mortensen came first and foremost, above anyone else.  
            “Listen,” I explained, “I completely understand. But Elliot is not in the right set of mind for—” I immediately snapped my mouth shut when I realized something… _I had referred to Mortensen by his given name._ My face began to heat up as I pulled myself into a straight stand and pulled my hand close to my mouth. I had done it so naturally… Just how did I feel for Detective Mortensen?  
            “Oh, my.” I attempted to laugh the awkward intimacy off. “I… I meant to say Mortensen there, heh…”

            “I know Mortensen’s struggling, alright?” Callahan countered, ignoring my inner turmoil. “I’m not blind…” Seeming to recognize the irony of that statement, since he required spectacles to see, he added, “not _entirely_ , anyway.” He then lowered his head for a moment, with his brown hair covering his face, and then he brought his head back up, moving his bangs from his face. “But look at it from _my_ perspective.” He said. “Honestly,” in a whisper, he told me, “we think he could be the culprit!”

            I thought about that for a moment, and realized that he had no reason to lie on that front. Whoever the true culprit was, they had indeed managed to make Mortensen into quite the patsy.

            Callahan continued, “If he quits, we’ll have _no choice_ but to arrest him. He’ll still be involved in the case _either way_ , but from two _very_ different positions.” He looked up at me then, and his blue eyes pleaded with me to understand that he only wanted the best outcome for everyone. “You need to help us keep him on this case so that it doesn’t have to come to that! I _really_ don’t want to arrest him.”

            Conflicted, I bit my lower lip. I clearly had only two options: let Mortensen be falsely accused of mass homicide, or try to force Mortensen to stay on the case even though that, too, was harmful for him. If someone had gone to the lengths of actually pretending to be him, just to frame him, I was horrified to think of what would happen if the culprit and the detective were ever to cross paths. I thought about my options, weighed them in my head, thought of the consequences, and soon came to a decision, at which point I sighed.

            I could not let Mortensen’s freedom be lost like this.

            “Well, when you put it that way,” I said, “you make it sound as though I have no other choice.”

            “You don’t.” Callahan sombrely admit. “None of us do.”

            The show must go on.

* * *

 

            “One, two, three, four…!” Before I even entered the room Mortensen had been escorted into, I could hear him counting anxiously. He sounded more than half crazed, and when my eyes landed on him, I was not particularly surprised to see how he rocked his upper body back and forth repeatedly. He did not pay attention to me. Did he even notice me?

            “Mortensen…” I spoke gently, trying to get his attention, but it was no use.

            “… five, six, _seven, eight…!_ ” He continued counting, beginning to sound a little more intense.

            “Mortensen,” I asked, raising my voice somewhat, “what’s that you’re doing there?”

            “Counting…” Mortensen replied. He almost sounded relieved to hear my voice, though he did not yet look at me; he simply continued to stare directly at the wall to my left, which was in front of him.

            “Why?” I questioned.

            “I dunno…” The detective admit.

            After a moment, I walked over to him and allowed myself to crouch in front of him. I placed a hand on his left knee, over which his blue suit pants had a patch of what looked to be a piece of the cinnamon brown portion of his balmacaan, half for balance and half to express my sympathy as I looked him in the eyes and said: “Mortensen, I’m sorry about your father.”

            “Don’t be…” He answered, moving his eyes from mine with his brows furrowed.

            “I’m afraid you’ve lost me a little…” I admit, since I found his response somewhat odd. “Why not, exactly?”

            “Because… I—I never actually met him.” Suddenly, I felt really guilty, and my heart hurt for Mortensen. So, that was why he had been so put off when I asked about his father… I wanted to hug Mortensen tightly, but before I could react, he continued: “He’s… heh, he’s been dead for… almost 53 years now…!”

            My sympathy turned to shock. _Mortensen_ was 53 years old. Something did not click right in my head.  
            “Wait, what?!” I shouted, expressing my confusion. “Then, how is—”

            “—the card here?” Mortensen finished my question, then answered: “I haven’t the slightest.” Mortensen lowered his head and quietly said, “I know it’s him, though… He… He looks just like me, this… Charlot guy.”

            I threw my hands up, exasperated, as I now had no logical reason for the card to be present. “Well then,” I shouted, “at this point in the case, even _I’ve_ been thrown for an absolute loss! And that’s quiet the admission, from a chap like myself.”

            “I don’t want to do this anymore, Cheshire.” The emotional, begging words poured out from Mortensen’s mouth so abruptly, that I did not catch them at first.

            “What’s that?”

            “I can’t take this.” Mortensen told me. “I want to give up the case.”

            Oh, how desperately I wanted to agree… However, I had already made my decision: Mortensen’s freedom and the safety of others had to come first.  
            “Whatever happened to ‘ _I want this fucker caught A.S.A.P._ ’?” I asked.

            “I don’t care anymore!” The detective cried out. “I just want us to be safe, Cheshire!”

            “Mortensen, if you quit this case now, they’re going to arrest you!” I told him. “Don’t put yourself in such a suspicious position! I know you’re not the killer, but _they don’t._ ” Mortensen said nothing, so I continued with my rant.  
            “Don’t you think for one second that I’m just going to sit back and watch you destroy yourself! Don’t you always try to _save_ innocent lives? So why put your _own_ at stake?”

            “I’ve never cared about saving lives.” Mortensen argued. “Saving lives just happens to be a big part of my job.”

            Both defeated and morally conflicted, I huffed and whipped around, turning my back to Mortensen. For a long moment, we were both quiet, the only noise coming from the tip of my right shoe tapping against the floor.

            “Cheshire…?” When Mortensen finally did speak, I could sense the dread he felt, so I did not turn to look at him.

            “Yes?”

            “What if… What if they’re right? About their suspicions, I mean.”

            Finally, I turned to look at him. “What are you saying?” I questioned, just barely masking my nervous disposition.

            Mortensen stared at me, guilt and self-doubt written across his grim facial expression.  
            “What if I _am_ the killer and I just _don’t realize it yet?_ ” The question was morbidly serious. He was honestly unsure of himself.

            “Mortensen, how could you say such a thing?” I responded, dismissing his concern. “That’s absolutely bloody ridiculous!”

            “But it really isn’t. The killer looks _just like me_ , Cheshire!” Mortensen disputed my confidence. Beginning to sound nervous, as if the very subject was making him afraid, he added: “What if I’m the killer? What if I hurt you eventually? I—I wouldn’t be able to live with myself!”

            Again, I knelt in front of him, this time pointing my finger at him as if to scold him.  
            “Spew that garbage any louder,” I hissed, “and they’re hear you out there. Just hush. There’s another explanation for this. There has to be.”  
           Suddenly, an idea began to form in my head. “ _He looks just like me,_ ” Mortensen had said. It was a long shot, but…  
            “Ah, I’ve got one! Listen to me. What we’re dealing with is a high-security laboratory, if Southwell’s correct. Who knows what kind of immoral experiments are performed within those halls?”

            “Get to the point.”

            “My point, Mortensen,” I pointed at myself, “is that _I’m_ still alive because of the results of an experiment. What if that card has more meaning than we’re giving it?”

            Mortensen’s expression shifted into what I could only describe as disgust. “What are you saying?” He asked, laughing somewhat out of sheer disbelief at what I was suggesting. “That you think the killer is my father raised from the dead?”

            “Sort of.” I admit, though honestly it did sound a bit more offensive when he worded it that way.

            “Fuck off, Cheshire.” He replied with hostility. Surprised by his aggression, I stood up, and his glare followed my eyes upward. His lips were curled back in what looked like the start of a snarl, and I could not help but take a small step backward.

            “Oh!” I exclaimed nervously and attempted to apologize. “I—I’m dreadfully sorry, Mortensen…! Was my theory… _really_ that offensive…?”

            “The killer is not my fucking father.” He gainsaid me.

            Intimidated, I lowered my gaze to the floor. “A—alright then.” I meekly responded. “I’m sorry.”

            Suddenly, Mortensen stood up, seeming to tower over me even though he was only two inches taller than me. I gasped and attempted to step further back, but Mortensen’s hands clamped down roughly onto my shoulders, and he got into my face.

            “It’s _not_ my father.” He insisted. “Are we clear?”

            My tongue was twisted. “W—well, y—”

            “ _ARE WE FUCKING CLEAR?!_ ” The detective roared at me, his already tight grip constricting further to the point where his arms were trembling, causing me to quiver somewhat.

            “ _Yes!_ ” I cried, flinching, as I was almost entirely certain that I was about to be knocked to the ground. However, as I stood there, prepared for a strike from Mortensen, nothing happened. Quite the contrary of what I thought occurred, as Mortensen’s grip began to become gentler. Hesitantly, I opened my eyes. The detective’s face was one of relief.

            “Good…” He said. When he noticed the fear in my eyes, he began to look a bit uncomfortable. “Ch—Cheshire,” he muttered, “don’t look so afraid…”

            “I wouldn’t,” I told him, “but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it looked like you were about to hurt me…!”

            Mortensen frowned. He almost looked hurt by my lack of trust.  
            “I usually have more self-control than I did just then… I’m sorry. I guess it’s just that I haven’t slept in days, and then there’s all this bullshit going on…” He looked at me and our eyes met for a second. Upon noticing that I was not entirely convinced by his casual apology, he suddenly pulled me into an embrace, and my body tensed.  
            “I wasn’t going to hurt you, I swear.” He confessed. “I—I’d never do that.” Was he trying to convince himself of that, or did he mean it? I could not tell. Pulling back from the embrace but still keeping his hands on my shoulders, he smirked in a comforting sort of way and said: “I will admit, though: it did feel good to scream. I haven’t done that in a while.”

            “Do you still want to give up the case?” I asked, attempting to change to subject to calm myself.

            Mortensen paused for a moment to think. “I don’t know.” He said after a few beats. “I feel like we should, but… I’m morbidly curious to see where this might lead everyone.”

            “Yes,” my inner voice retorted, “I bet one of us is going to end up in a bloody madhouse at this rate.” However, I bit my tongue, not wanting to offend Mortensen again. Instead, I said: “That’s more like it. As much as I hate to say it, we should regroup now. Perhaps we should try following Southwell’s lead.”

            “I thought you wanted nothing to do with Southwell.” Unlike myself, when Mortensen saw an opportunity to make a teasing remark, he took it. After a pause, though, Mortensen’s eyes widened. “Wait, how do you even know what his lead is? You left before he told us.”

            “Believe it or not, I stayed by the doorway to hear his idea.” I admit as I shrugged. “Just because I hate him doesn’t mean I’m not going to follow a decent theory.”

            Mortensen chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand how you truly think, Cheshire…”

            We gazed at each other for a moment in silence. Both of us mutually missed the cue to speak, so neither of us did anything. It took a few beats before I realized that while Mortensen had figuratively backed off, he had not done so literally, and I questioned why I had not noticed how close we were earlier. Had I been too afraid?

            “Um…” I cleared my throat. Mortensen’s hands were still on my shoulders, and it felt rude to back away without him first releasing me. I watched as his face twisted in what looked like bittersweet fondness, and I expected him to speak since it looked very much like he wanted to, but he instead let go of me and shuffled back somewhat.

            “Yeah,” He finally murmured, “uh, that’s awkward. Sorry.”

            “It’s fine…” I replied, nervous but reassuring. Again, neither of us were sure of what to do. There was suddenly an elephant in the room that neither of us seemed to want to address, though we both obviously yearned to do so.

            “Err… We…” Mortensen gestured behind me, toward the door. “We should probably go now. Fuck, God only knows what they think is going on in here after what you fuckin’ said to them earlier.”

            Realizing what he meant, I frowned. “Look, I apologize, alright? I needed to shut them up somehow.”

            Mortensen grinned at me. “Whatever you say, _mon amour._ ” In response to his sarcastic goading, I lightly punched him in the arm.


	26. Chapter 26

            About an hour later, all of us had regrouped at Calhoon’s office. Mortensen had recovered from his hysteria, though he did still seem rather worn out, which was understandable since he had not actually slept for at least two days. As for the suspicion against Mortensen: it appeared to have become the new elephant in the room, as no one wanted to address it.

            “Southwell,” Callahan began, starting the discussion, “do you still have that pamphlet for Crimson Cove Laboratories?”

            Southwell raised his head. He seemed surprised. “Yeah, but what made you suddenly give my idea some thought?” He questioned.

            “Dr. Cheshire recommended we look into it.” Callahan admit. Southwell’s gaze turned onto me, and we shared a glare of mutual distaste. In fact, the aggression in our stares was enough to make Mortensen, standing between us, squirm a bit in discomfort at being caught in the crossfire.

            “Wow.” Callahan remarked as he awkwardly adjusted his glasses. “I swear I can actually _feel_ the resentment radiating from you two.”

            Southwell scoffed and pulled his eyes from mine. “Whatever. Here’s the plan.” From the left pocket of his black blazer, the young CIA Agent produced blueprints, which he spread out across the operating table Calhoon used to dissect bodies.

            “Wait.” Calhoon finally spoke up. “You had these blueprints on you this whole time?”

            “You’d be surprised how well they fit into my pockets when folded.” Southwell answered.

            “Mm, fair enough.”

            Officer Florence, apparently sick of not saying anything, leaned forward, glancing at each of us almost at random. “So, mi amigos, what is it that we are looking at here? Is it a floor plan of the building?”

            “Yes,” replied Southwell, “of Crimson Cove.”

            “Where did you get these?” Florence addressed an unspoken question that I had figured had already been answered by the young man’s profession.

            Southwell chuckled and modestly said, “Working for the CIA does have its perks sometimes.” Finally, the agent got back on track. “The plan I have in mind is this.” He began, pointing at a square on the blue paper. “I’ll take the security room, and see if I can hack into the system. Calhoon will take the main control room, and—”

            “Uh, hold on. Why me?” Calhoon questioned, cutting Southwell off.

            “I took the liberty of asking for a background check on all of you.” Southwell’s words triggered a small yet noticeable flutter of panic in myself, Mortensen, Calhoon, and, surprisingly, Florence. However, he ignored our reactions and continued, “Calhoon, you worked for Webshadow as a computer technician, correct?”

            “I—… W—well, yeah, but…” Clearly, the subject was a very uncomfortable one for the pathologist.

            Southwell leaned closer to Calhoon, forward and to his left over the table, and said: “You’re the only other person who can do this besides me, and I’ve got my hands full with the security room. We _need_ you, Calhoon.”

            Dr. Calhoon, shortest man in the room since Officer Florence stood just an inch taller than him, looked around the room nervously, as if trying to get confirmation from the rest of us that Agent Southwell’s words were true. Realizing that we were all staring at him solemnly, he sighed.  
            “I want you to know,” he stammered, “that under normal circumstances, I would n—never agree to this.” Then, with his soft brown eyes, he looked up. “But, in this case… Fine. I’ll help.”

            Southwell smiled and stood up straighter. “That’s the spirit.” He announced, delighted that things were finally seeming to go his way.

            “Can I interrupt?” Mortensen suddenly spoke. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, even mine, which made him look somewhat nervous.

            “What is it?” Southwell asked.

            “This plan seems simple,” Mortensen observed, “and I’m all for simple, but… We don’t seem to be accounting for very much security. Or _any_ , for that matter.”

            Southwell had already thought of that, apparently, as he laughed gently at Mortensen’s concern. “Well, I was kind of hoping that if we run into any trouble, you and Florence would deal with it.”

            The detective fidgeted somewhat. “Uh, you mean… fight them…?” For some reason, the very idea was making him uncomfortable. Callahan, to my right, began struggling not to laugh, but I ignored him.

            “Yeah.” Southwell replied, “Don’t kill them or anything, and I could probably manage to put the security cameras on a loop to get us through, but just hit ‘em or something.” As he finished his plan, he pantomimed lightly striking someone across the head.

            Mortensen began to grow somewhat anxious, so he turned to Callahan. The inspector general waved his hand dismissively, still only just barely able to contain his desire to laugh.

            “There’s one small little problem with that.” He said through a smirk. “Being that Florence would have to deal with them on his own.”

            “Why’s that?” Southwell questioned. I, too, was interested in the answer, but I did not make my own curiosity so obvious.

            “I, uh…” Mortensen looked down, allowing Callahan to take over.

            “The honest answer,” he commented, “is that Mortensen is absolutely _abysmal_ at hand-to-hand combat.” Finally, he was beginning to chuckle through his words. “Once upon a time, he actually got a black eye from a teenaged girl.”

            Mortensen (quite literally, as he stomped) put his foot down, having had enough of this embarrassment from his superior.  
            “Cut me some slack, Simon; she jumped me…” He explained.

            “Doesn’t change the fact that she was only—”—Callahan began talking in a baby voice—“ _four and a half feet tall!_ ”

            “It’s no problem.” Florence announced, much to Mortensen’s obvious relief. “I could probably easily take them on my own.”

            “Alright.” Southwell gave in to the slight change of plan, and then turned toward Mortensen and I. “Detective Mortensen and Dr. Cheshire, you two will inspect the whole lab after Florence deals with any guards.”

            Callahan leaned forward. “What are Frank and I doing?” He asked.

            “You two are staying behind.” Southwell answered.

            The shorter Callahan brother took a brief moment to process that, after which his small smile flipped into a frown. “Waitwhat?” He responded, his words merging almost comically. “No way!”

            “Someone has to stay someplace safe, just in case something goes wrong.” Southwell explained the reasoning behind his decision. “We’ll report to you if we need help or some outside influence.”

            Callahan stood upright, crossing his arms over his chest not unlike a scolded child. “How, exactly?” He demanded sardonically.

            In response, Southwell pulled from his pocket some sort of slim, black earpiece.  
            “My favourite CIA toy.” He crooned. “We can use these to keep in contact on a secure line, no matter the distance. I can get one of them for each of us.”

            “Working for the CIA really _does_ have its perks.” Florence chimed in.

            “When are we doing this, then?” Callahan asked. “We might need some time to prepare.”

            The CIA agent scratched his cheek in thought. “Well, it’s what, the 14th today? How about the 30th? That gives us roughly sixteen days to get ready. Sound good?”

            “More than enough time for me.” Florence.

            “I can be ready by then.” Calhoon.

            Callahan only nodded, so I looked up at Mortensen. There was a small pause as everyone waited for him to speak.

            “Yeah,” he finally said, “sounds good…”

            Southwell clapped his hands together conclusively. “Alright, then. It’s settled. The 30th it is.”

* * *

 

            On the days before the 30th, Mortensen and I did nothing special. We mostly just sat around, hardly talking to one another. The evening of the 29th was no different. Mortensen was in the kitchen making dinner, leaving me on the couch. The television was on, showing some sort of boring soap opera. I sighed and looked around the room. The room’s lighting was somewhat warm due to the setting sun outside, and the realization of this fact triggered something in my head.

            “Mortensen,” I called, “How long until you’re finished cooking?”

            “I’m making fuckin’ spaghetti,” He laughed, “How long do you think?”

            “I don’t know.” I answered honestly.

            “I dunno. Two minutes?”

            Not even sure if what I was planning would work, I leapt up and grabbed the back of the office chair in front of the computer desk. I began to roll it into the dining room, which was essentially the same portion of the first level as the kitchen, meaning that I was placing the chair almost directly behind Mortensen.

            “Cheshire,” Mortensen began, looking at what I was doing, “what are you doing?”

            “Do you have another chair?” I questioned.

            “Um.” Surprised by the question, Mortensen stumbled on phenomes unintelligibly. “M—maybe?”

            “Where?”

            “Err, no promises. I think, maybe, there might be one in the master bedroom? Why?”

            I did not answer him, instead dashing upstairs. I realized my idea was silly, but for all I knew, something horrible could happen to one of us tomorrow. Now was my last chance. I flung open the door to our bedroom, but found no chair. I was not sure why I was expecting one.

            “No,” I hollered.

            “The other room, genius!” Mortensen shouted back, sounding amused. “The one we don’t go into!”

            I briskly made my way to the door I had never opened, which revealed a room containing only a few unopened boxes of Mortensen’s things. I found another chair, but curiosity got the better of me when I found an open box filled with crumpled papers. One of said papers had fallen over onto the floor, so I picked it up and straightened it out.

            Written on the paper in a handwriting I could hardly read appeared to be some sort of story. When I looked a bit harder, I realized it was in French, which explained why I could not read it. There was a signature at the bottom that appeared to read: “Emilie Mortensen”.

            I looked off into space. Had Mortensen’s wife been a writer?

            “Cheshire?” I heard Mortensen call.

            “Coming!” I shouted back, quietly re-crumpling the paper so that Mortensen would not later scold me for sticking my nose where it did not belong, before dropping it and grabbing the chair. This one rolled as well, which made it a little bit easier for me to get it down the stairs. Once in the kitchen, I placed the chair on the opposite end of the table. Mortensen stood by the fridge, holding two plates of spaghetti.

            “Can I—” He stepped forward.

            “No.” I said, and Mortensen stopped. “Candles?”

            Seeming flustered, Mortensen giggled awkwardly. “Uh, what?”

            “Do you have candles?”

            “Fuck, I… I have one?” I stared at him, and he soon realized why. “It’s on one of the shelves of the bookcase.”

            I grabbed the candle (which was smaller than I would have liked, as it was one of those tiny round ones) and placed it on the centre of the table.

           “Shit,” I murmured, then I ran back into the living room. Mortensen’s coat was on the couch, and I ransacked its pockets until I found Mortensen’s cigarette lighter. I hurried back to the candle before I realized that I honestly had no bloody idea how to light a lighter.

            I heard Mortensen put the plates down on the counter before he came over. “Cheshire, if you try to light that with those gloves on, you’re gonna fuckin’ combust.”

            I turned to face him, handing the lighter to him. “How do I use this?”

            “You might not be able to.” He teased. “If you wear those gloves all the time, I’m willing to bet you don’t have any callouses?”

            I averted my eyes. It was true, my hands made it look as though I had not worked a day in my life.

            “Here, give me the candle.”

            I picked up the candle, handing it to him as well. He pressed his thumb down against a jagged gear-like portion of the lighter and yanked it back with a calloused thumb, causing a spark that lit a small flame at the top. He used the flame to light the candle upside down before snapping the lighter closed and handing me the candle.

            “Given,” He said, “this is a _really_ old lighter. Nowadays they’ve got those shitty wind-proof ‘press down to light’ ones that aren’t child-friendly at all. Really, what were they thinking?”

            I did not really know what he meant, so I just shook my head and smiled politely. I placed the candle down on the table and then opened what I had learned was the cutlery drawer from watching Mortensen.

            “You don’t have any knives.” I complained. He did have a few large knives, but he had none that were table-friendly.

            “We’re eating fucking _spaghetti_ , Cheshire.” Mortensen countered.

            Defeated, I grabbed two forks and set them at either side of the table. It took me a moment to remember proper table etiquette, but I remembered soon enough, placing the forks to what would be our left.

            “What is all this for, anyway?” Elliot asked.

            I turned to him as I pulled back one of the chairs. He went to grab the plates first.  
            “No,” I snapped, “leave those.” The detective looked at me, seeming delightfully uncomfortable. Realizing I was waiting for him to sit, he chuckled nervously and sat down in the office chair. Once he was comfortably seated, I grabbed the first plate and placed it down on the table in front of him.

            “Um, thanks…?” He replied.

            Suddenly, I realized I had forgotten to set up drinks. “Do you have any glasses?”

            Elliot paused for a moment. “The easy answer is no.” He eventually said, holding his fork in his right hand instead of his left, which I realized made more sense, considering there was a wall immediately to his left. Bloody hell, things really weren’t going how I had pictured them.

            Deciding to ignore my bad luck, I grabbed the remaining plate and placed it on to opposite side of the table before taking my seat. The table was not too long for what it was, which meant that Elliot and I were just barely separated. I noticed that Elliot was having a little bit of difficulty with his fork.

            “Are you alright?” I asked.

            “It’s funny,” He answered, “how one hand can do a whole shitload of complex tasks, and then the other hand can’t even hold a fucking fork.”

            I laughed, and so did he, but I stopped when I realized that was another mistake.

            “Do you want to switch seats?” I asked.

            “No, it’s fine.” He replied, as was his way. He hated to be a bother, even if he knew he wouldn’t be.

            “Really, it’s o—”

            “I’m fine, really.”

            I reluctantly gave up, and we began to quietly eat. Elliot kept trying to subconsciously place his elbows on the table, but as soon as he noticed, he would fidget and yank his elbows back. After about the fifth time I witnessed it occur, I spoke up.

            “I don’t mind if you break table etiquette.” I admit. “I never cared much for it myself.”

            “Why are we eating like this, anyway?” He asked. “I mean, not that I don’t appreciate your effort or anything. I’m not complaining, I just… what’s the occasion?”

            I shrugged. “Honestly, I’ve been wanting to have a proper meal with you for a long time now.” I told him quietly. “I would have liked to have done so at a restaurant, but I know that you get uncomfortable when you have to eat around others.” He emit a half-scoff, half-laugh noise before I continued. “It’s just that… I don’t know. I want to…” My face was beginning to flush. Dammit, why was I so nervous about nothing? “I want to…”

            Elliot shook his head, lowering his gaze to his plate. “I understand.” He told me, sparing me the effort of trying to explain. “Thanks for taking my social anxiety into consideration.” He added with a chuckle.

            “This has not gone entirely to plan.” I confessed.

            “It’s more charming that way.” Elliot replied, and I could tell that he was being sincere. “But maybe we should do this again sometime. Buy some glasses, maybe some wine…” He started to laugh again, and I could not help but join him.

            “Flowers, too?” I jokingly added to the list.

            The hearty laugh we shared then, unbeknownst to me, would be our last. I wish I had appreciated it more…

* * *

 

            Almost before I knew it, it was the 30th, and I was sitting shotgun in Mortensen’s car. Squeezed together in the backseats were, from my right to my left, Officer Feliz Florence, Dr. Dallas Calhoon, and Agent Russell Southwell. We had picked them up from Calhoon’s office minutes earlier, and now the goal was to find Crimson Cove Laboratories. Southwell gave Mortensen directions, which resulted in a few wrong turns when Southwell’s cellphone began to malfunction, but we soon were travelling down suspiciously empty roads. I began to feel worried that we really were about to step into an unsafe place, and I glanced at Mortensen. I got no response, as Mortensen’s eyes were plastered to the road ahead of us.

            We soon found a building. It was unlabelled and rather short. There was a gate surrounding it, but surprisingly, the gate was wide open.

            “Is this it?” Mortensen asked, rightfully suspicious.

            “It should be.” Southwell responded.

            “So, what,” Florence asked sarcastically, “are they expecting us or something?”

            “I don’t know.” Southwell said.

            “Well, fuck it.” Mortensen announced. “Let’s go.”

            “Are you sure?” I asked.

            “Yeppers.” Mortensen slammed onto the accelerator, speeding into the parking lot.

            “Whoa, whoa, chill out!” Southwell shouted.

            “I’m sick of this shit!” Mortensen replied. “‘Be careful’ this, ‘you’re suspicious’ that! Let’s get this the fuck over with!” The detective slowed the car suddenly, and we all exchanged a look of confusion.

            There was an entrance to the indoor parking lot that was open.

            “Uh…” Southwell mumbled. “Should we… Should we go inside?”

            “That’s what they appear to want us to do.” Calhoon responded apprehensively. “Should we really do what they want us to do?”

            “Southwell?” Mortensen asked an unspoken question.

            “I can’t breach their servers.”

            “Have they seen us on the security cameras?”

            “No, I mean…” Southwell looked at the rearview mirror to express his concern to both of us at the same time. “Their servers are offline. _Everything is off._ ”

            Both Mortensen and I turned back to look at him over our seats.

            “What do you mean?” Mortensen.

            “I’m as baffled as you are. It looks like they’ve… disabled their security measures, for some reason.”

            “It’s bait.” Mortensen said suddenly as he turned back to the steering wheel. “They’re fuckin’ baiting us.”

            “But do we take the bait,” Florence posed, “or not?”

            For a few beats, everyone in the car was silent, considering the officer’s question. It was a frightening situation we were facing, but what if we were simply reading too much into it?

            “Southwell,” Mortensen began, “are you sure it’s off?”

            “That’s what I’m getting from this.” Southwell remarked as he scrolled through something on his phone.

            “You’re sure that it’s off and that we’re just not out of range?”

            “I can’t be sure of that, but I could probably safely assume so, yes.”

            While it was not very comforting to discover that we were progressing entirely on the basis of an assumption made by the youngest person in the car, Mortensen decided to work with it. “Let’s go inside, then.” The detective said. Slowly, we drove into the indoor parking lot. The tension began to rise as all five of us were silent.

            Suddenly, once we had driven inside, the exit closed behind us! Calhoon shouted in surprise, Florence whipped around, and I clutched the side of my seat.

            “Southwell!” Mortensen demanded, again asking something.

            “I don’t know!” Southwell responded desperately. “I’m not seeing any activity on the server! It was probably automatic!”

            “Then why the fuck was it open to begin with?!” Though he was annoyed, Mortensen proceeded the calmly drive through the parking lot. He soon stopped the car in one of the spaces.  
           “Well, that was easy.”

            Southwell shook his head. “I can’t believe there was so little security… I wonder if something happened here.”

            Florence laughed. “Oh, like what? Some sort of failed science experiment? That sounds like something that’d only happen in the movies, amigos.”

            “Stay here.” Mortensen said to us before getting out of the car.

            “Roll down the window,” Calhoon said to me.

            “What?” I asked.

            “Roll your window down so we can hear him!”

            I glanced around the car, confused. I had never heard the term “roll down” used for a window. I had seen the driver side window lower every so often, but did not know how to do it.

            “Mang,” Florence said, leaning over my shoulder since he was sitting behind me. “You see that little black button on the side of your door? With the white square?”

            I looked. “Yes?”

            “Hold it down.”

            I hesitantly did as I was told and, lo and behold, the window began to lower.

            “Of course it is…” I heard Mortensen scoff. He appeared to be talking to Callahan on his earpiece. “Whatever. We’re going to take the stairs up to the main floor now.” After a brief pause, he gestured at us. “Come on, guys, everyone out. Let’s go.”

            “Alright amigos,” Florence announced as he opened his door and began to step out. “As we say in my homeland, ¡empecemos esta fiesta!” He then made a distinctly Mexican noise, some sort of excited cheer, by extendedly rolling an R.

            After we all emerged from the car, we went down the stairs to the first basement level, where apparently all of the laboratories were. When we stepped out into the corridor cautiously, we were only half surprised to discover that we could be as loud as we liked. To our left was another exit, but it was sealed shut as well.

            “Hmm, how odd...” I said. “There doesn’t appear to be anyone _here_ either…”

            “Th—that’s impossible…” Mortensen responded, first looking left, then looking right. It looked like to the right was where we needed to go, as forward was a dead end. Mortensen started marching to the right, trying to be loud about it, but nothing came of it.

            “No, it looks like Dr. Cheshire is right; there really isn’t anyone here…” Calhoon observed. It was very unsettling.

            “Southwell, are you sure we’re in the right place?” All of our eyes turned to Southwell as Mortensen asked the question we were all thinking.

            Southwell glanced at his phone, and then back up at us. “W—well, yeah.” He stammered. “This _has_ to be the place.”

            Mortensen turned back to the right. “This doesn’t make any sense…” He said as he started to walk further into the facility, and we all followed along. When we got into what looked like the central hub connecting all of the labs together, Florence walked ahead of us.

            “ _Hello in there!_ ” He shouted. His words echoed somewhat, and he stepped back. “Yep, looks like the Doc’s right.” He told us. “This place is emptier than a banker’s heart. I for one say that we should split up and search for clues.”

            “Then, if that’s the case…” Southwell began. “Florence, forward and to your left. Turn…” He trailed off, and suddenly seemed to be pulling a blank on just what the floorplan had said.

            “… Right, twice.” I continued. He shot me a look, but it was more one of thankful surprise than of hatred. “There should be a red door directly in front of you. Calhoon, forward and to your right. Turn the corner. I believe that’s the control room…”

            “Uh… Yeah.” Southwell did his best to confirm my words. “Yeah, what he said. But, er, Mortensen and Cheshire, I want you two to meet me in the security room.”

            “That’s the door right next to the elevator, correct?” I inquired.

            “Yeah. Just… come see me. I want to briefly discuss something after I get everything set up in my favour.” With that, everyone began to go their separate ways, while Mortensen and I stood where we were in silence for a moment.

            “Cheshire, I have a bad feeling about this…” Mortensen finally said, with his eyes gazing off into nothing.

            “If I’m entirely honest with you, Detective…” I took a deep breath. “Well… I do too.” Together we found the security room, which we entered with reluctance. When we entered, Southwell looked over his shoulder at us.

            “Hey.” He said.

            “What did you need to talk to us about?” Mortensen asked.

            “Just what I need you two to do.” Southwell faced us.

            “Which is?” I questioned.

            “I need you two to look around. Try to find out what happened here; what happened to everyone.” Then, he turned back to the control panel.

            “Anything else?” Mortensen questioned. There was a computer by the control panel that Southwell was at, but he did not touch it.

            “Well, judging by…” Southwell trailed off, looking at one of the screens in front of him. “Wait, what the hell?”

            In an instant, there was a loud noise, and everything went dark. Mortensen emit a loud gasp, and instinctively, I shot out my right hand and grabbed hold of what I believed to be his arm. After a moment, the lights flickered back on. The security cameras, however, did not show up on the display. I looked at Mortensen, only to realize that he was a step ahead of me. I looked at my hand, still held up and clenched. I held nothing. However, I had grabbed something, I was sure of it. What had I held if not Mortensen?

            “You’ve got to be kidding me…” Southwell complained.

            “The devil just happened?” I asked as I lowered my hand, deciding that I must have just imagined the feeling of fabric crumpling under my grip or that it had merely been my glove.

            Southwell looked at us again. He looked a tad unnerved.  
            “I saw someone on one of the cameras…” He shakily confessed. “I think it was the Phantom…!”

            “Can we get the cameras back online?” I asked.

            Southwell shook his head, but retracted his denial by shrugging. “I honestly don’t know if there’s a point, but… I mean, I can try…” He then turned back to the console and began typing away. Noticing that Mortensen appeared to be petrified in fear, I took that moment to examine the other computer. On the screen was, in bold,

**I 387.7083. I 485.4116.**

            “Mortensen?” I said.

            Mortensen rushed over. “What is it?”

            I pointed at the screen. “What do you think this means?”

            The detective looked closer. “It’s… It’s some sort of code.”

            I thought for a moment. Only one thing made sense to me.  
            “It must open the exits.” I concluded. Mortensen, to my surprise, agreed.

            “Come on, then.” He said. “Let’s go. Maybe we can get a hint somewhere else.”

            I nodded, and we left the security room. The door slid open and we stepped through, exiting back out into the lobby. From there, we decided to go to the control room, inside which we found Calhoon. There was a panel at the back of the room that Mortensen appeared intrigued by, so we approached it.

            “It says it’s set to turn power to the elevator on and off.” The detective observed.

            “Yes, but it also needs a code.” I mumbled. “A four-digit one, at that.”

            “Wait a minute.” Mortensen looked at me. “What was on that paper?”

            “Which paper?”

            “You know, the one we picked up at the crime scene.”

            I was still confused.

            “The paper from under Goethals Bridge.”

            “Oh. 1-8-4-6.” I replied. I then watched as Mortensen entered the four digits into the panel. A beep was heard.

            “Bingo. Now we can use the elevator.”

            “Maybe we should check on Florence first.” I suggested.

            “You think?”

            “I am just a bit worried. Besides, maybe there’s something there of interest.”

            Mortensen shrugged. “Alright, if you think so.” I followed him out into the lobby, and for a few steps, everything was fine. Then, before I knew it, the lights had snapped off, and Mortensen belted out a yelp of terror.

            “Mortensen?!” I reached out, again hitting something, which I clung to. A light appeared, and I realized that Mortensen had turned on a flashlight that I was not aware he possessed.

            “Gogogo!!” He rapidly shouted, grabbing my hand and pulling me along. As we ran in the pitch dark lobby, suddenly stopped.

            “Mortensen, what—” I looked at what Mortensen was pointing the flashlight at and felt my breath hitch.

            In front of us was a tall shadowy figure. It remained still while drowned in the light, but even illuminated, I could only just barely make out...

            _It was Mortensen’s doppelganger._ As we stared, its left eye suddenly shot open, revealing a glowing red iris with a slit pupil.

            “MORTENSEN, MOVE!!” I screamed as I roughly shoved him to the left. I tried getting into the first door we found, but it did not move. I tried the second, however, and the door opened to reveal light, so I ran in and pulled Mortensen, who fell in, with me. The door closed behind us. Mortensen, laying on the floor near the door, quickly sat up and skittered backward. He stared at the door while I stared at him, both of us breathing heavily.

            “What in the bloody hell was that…?!” I asked, panicked. I will admit, I had not been so very frightened in a while. However, it was clear that Mortensen was taking this a lot worse than I was, as he began to rock himself on the floor.

            “ _It’s here…!_ ” He practically cried to himself. “ _My God, it’s here for me…!_ ”

            I rushed to Mortensen’s side, crouching beside him. “Mortensen, come on!” I gently tried to coerce him to stand, but he was inconsolable. Instead of standing, he grabbed my arms and pulled me a bit closer.

            “We have to get out of here.” The desperate sleuth told me. “We’ve gotta get the _fuck_ out of here before—People are going to get hurt! _It’s going to get me!_ ”

            I pulled Mortensen into an embrace, and his hands dug into the back of my coat.  
            “Mortensen, come on.” I said to him. “You’ve got to stick with me on this if we’re to get out of here, alright? I cannot do this without you, so you have got to hang in there until we crack this code, okay?” I stroked his hair. “I will not let anything happen to you. Just—”

            Mortensen pulled back and began to cough heavily. Just when I thought he was about to stop, he took a deep, difficult breath and began to cough more. Not knowing what else to do, I rubbed his back, and soon he was waving me away as he struggled to catch his breath.

            “Mortensen, are you alright?” I demanded to know.

            “I’m—fine. Just fine… Help me up.”

            I stood and held out my hand, which Mortensen took, and I pulled him back to his feet. He stumbled a bit forward, so I extended my arms to catch him if need be, but he regained his balance. Finally, we took a look around at the room we had stumbled into.

            The room was rather spacious, and there was a table in the centre. It dawned on me that we had probably gone into one of the laboratories. On the further end of the room from us was a cabinet filled with various chemicals and such.

            “Is this… a lab?” I asked aloud.

            “Looks like it.” Mortensen replied, finally getting control over his throat. I watched him pull out his gun from the holster he wore under his coat and blazer, and he checked to make sure that it was loaded.

            “Do you think that’s necessary?” I asked as he turned the safety off.

            “Do I think it’s necessary? Yes. Do I think it will actually help? No, not at all.” Turning and aiming the gun at the door, the detective then started to inch closer to the doorway. I moved a little bit to his side just in case something happened.

            Mortensen gulped. His hands were trembling, I could see, and he began to breathe heavily as he continued to inch forward. In one brave lunge, he thrust himself forward, and the door opened. I watched as he, with his breath held, stared straight ahead. After a couple of seconds, he exhaled shakily and turned his head toward me. Curious, I stepped closer, and seeing that he wasn’t telling me to get back, I moved closer still until I could see what stopped him.

            Carved into the wall in front of us was: **_ELLIOT._**

            It was too late for me to have regrets. My mistakes and my ignorance led up to the present events and those still to come, and I accept that, though I would do anything to go back in time and make this never happen.

            “M—Mortensen…” I stammered.

            “It’s gone for now…” Mortensen muttered. “If we’re going to carry on with this, we’d best act fast.”


	27. Chapter 27

            Mortensen and I checked on Florence. Upon discovering that he was fine, as he was simply standing around singing some Spanish folk song to himself, I took a look around. The lower level, B2, where we currently were, appeared to be some sort of train station. The train itself was stalled directly in front of us, and I had an idea.

            “Could we use this train to escape?” I asked Mortensen.

            “Every bone in my body is telling me that would be too easy.” The detective replied. “I wouldn’t risk it, not unless you want to check the tunnels first.”

            “Well then, let’s do that.”

            “What?” Mortensen asked, his brows furrowed as he had not expected me to want to step into the tunnel. “Chesh, it’s dark as shit down there.”

            “We need to know, Mortensen. Escape by train seems like our best option.” I urged.

            Mortensen frowned. He appeared to be almost entirely against my plan, so I held out my hand.

            “Give me the flashlight, and I’ll check on my own.” I said. “You can stay here, where it’s safe.”

            “No fucking way.” Mortensen refused. “We are _not_ splitting up, Cheshire.”

            “It’s fine.” I replied.

            “Really, it isn’t. You have no idea how bad of an idea that is.” He told me. I decided that, since the Phantom had written Mortensen’s name on the wall, he probably knew more about it than anyone else did, so it was probably in my best interest to believe him.

            “If you’re so damn determined,” the detective turned on the flashlight, “then let’s go together.” I was happy that he was finally seeing things my way.

            Together, we walked down the train tunnel. We stayed close together so as to not become separated somehow. Quite a ways down, we found a short platform that had a door. As for the tunnel itself… Well, it ended there. Abruptly. With a wall.

            “What the hell…?” I was stunned. “This makes no bloody sense!”

            “See?” Mortensen spoke. “I told you. It won’t let us leave like that, Chesh.”

            “How much about this thing do you know?” I demanded.

            “Let’s check out this door.” Elliot evaded the subject, and I growled in frustration, though I decided not to question it any further… for now. Mortensen tried to pull open the door, but it was useless. He pushed it as well but again, it did not budge.  
            “Fuck!” He cursed under his breath before he slammed the side of his fist into the door. “It’s fucking locked.”

            “Do you hear anything inside?” I asked.

            “I am _not_ placing my head against anyth—” Mortensen stopped suddenly.

            “Mortensen?”

            “Go back.”

            “What?”

            “Go back to the platform, now. Let’s go!” Briskly, Mortensen and I began to walk back to the platform where we had left Florence. It was not very long before the detective began to run, and I struggled to keep up. I expected him to stop at the platform, but he did not; instead, he kept running toward the other side of the tunnel.

            “Mortensen!” I hollered. “Wait!”

            Mortensen stopped and resumed coughing once he did. I finally caught up with him, and, panting, I pat his back again.

            “Don’t strain yourself…!” I warned him.

            “Let’s look through the other side of the tunnel, okay…?!” He sounded a bit desperate. What had scared him back there?

            “Fine, I guess…”

            We walked (well, Mortensen was starting to limp somewhat) down the tunnel. The sleuth eventually started to stride a bit ahead of me. I quickly realized that the path ahead was actually just a gigantic hole in the ground, but Elliot kept walking.

            “ _Mortensen!_ ” I yelped as I lurched forward and just barely caught his arm as his foot swung over the dark pit. He quickly yanked his leg back and shuffled away from the hole.

            “What the fuck…?” Mortensen gazed into the abyss, not seeming to care if it gazed back.

            I pointed ahead. There looked to be a doorway at the further end of it. “The trail carries on for a bit. There’s something down there, I can hear it.”

            “There’s no way I can make this jump.” Mortensen determined.

            “I’ll go.” I said, again extending my hand for the flashlight. “You stay here.”

            “You sure?” Mortensen asked, managing to cover up his fear.

            “Yes.”

            Very reluctantly, Mortensen handed the flashlight to me. I took a few steps and then ran forward, successfully managing to jump over the gap in the ground. I then turned back and pointed the flashlight at Mortensen. He gave me a nervous thumbs up, though his facial expression revealed his absolute terror.

            “I’ll be quick! Just stay here!” I shouted before rushing down the trail. The trail led me to an opening into what looked like a sewer. There was a little platform over the substance underneath my feet, which I walked across with hesitance. The room did not smell of sewage, so I was confused as to what exactly the room’s purpose was. Scanning the surface of the aqueous substance, the light refracted against something that caught my eye.

            “Hello,” I remarked to myself, “What’s that?” As there were no bars or anything to stop me, I decided to step into the slightly-viscous puke-green water. As I sloshed forward, everything was fine, until…

            “Hello…” The sound of another voice made me jolt back. I looked around. No one was there…

            “Alright, show yourself!” I snapped. “Who’s there?” I pointed the flashlight toward where I had seen an item of interest, only to find that there now stood a dark silhouette. The light should have illuminated it…!  
            “Look, whoever you are, it’s not safe down here!” I said, trying to ignore the obvious. “Come with me so I can take you to safety!”

            “It is you who needs someone to protect you.” Replied the voice of a Russian male.

            “I… don’t quite understand what you mean by that.” I told it.

            “You will, in time… Dr. Cheshire.”

            “How do you know my name?”

            However, as suddenly as he appeared, the silhouette of the man disappeared.

            “ _Wait!_ ” I shouted before backing up a bit. “That’s… That’s not possible…! People can’t just disappear like that…!” My train of thought began to twist into something dark. “Unless we’re not dealing with people…!”

            “Oh, do be quiet!” My inner voice harshly scolded my childish conclusion. “There are no such things as ghosts. They’re _not_ real.”

            “But there’s no other explanation for what I’ve just witnessed…!” I countered as I shivered. Then, I looked down. Just below the water’s surface was a key of some sort, so I picked it up.  
           “Hmm, a key. I wonder what it opens.” I shone the flashlight on it and discovered that the word “boiler” was written across it.

            The boiler room! That must have been what the room in the other end of the tunnel was! I jumped up onto the metal platform and hurried back across the trail, though I was weighed down somewhat by the wetness of my clothes. Mortensen, thankfully, was still waiting there, right where I left him.

            “Mortensen!” I shouted as I jumped across. I nearly slipped and fell into the hole, but I regained my balance. “I found out what that door we tried was!”

            “What?” He asked.

            I showed him the key. “It’s the boiler room. We should look inside. There has to be a reason why the key for it was in such a strange place.”

            “I don’t know about that, Chesh…” Mortensen looked around nervously.

            I took his hand in mine, a gesture we seemed to be repeating. “Come on.” I tugged him along into the other side of the tunnel, which he very much fought me on, but to no avail. Together we returned to the door in the further side of the tunnel, and I handed the key to Mortensen. Holding the key, he suddenly cringed, clutching his chest.

            “Mortensen?” I leaned closer.

            “I’m good…” Mortensen insisted. He pushed me aside and inserted the key into a lock on the door. Twisting the key, we heard a small click, and Mortensen pushed the door open. The boilers, both small and in the leftmost corner of the room, gave off a slight orange glow. On the floor were some papers. I picked one of them up.

            The paper was a document of some sort, and it looked to be related to a test that had been conducted. It was somewhat singed around the edges. Was it meant to be burned?

            _Filed by: Dr. Linda Kyles_

_Date: 17/03/21_

_Test Number/Name: 373-B (“Eclipse Potion” Test # 2)_

_Participants: Dr. Kyles, Prof. Wolff, Dr. Faucheux, Research Scientist Emmerson_

_Subject Name: LYNDON, Terrence_

_Result: Failure_

“Cheshire.”

            I stopped reading the paper when Mortensen spoke and instead turned my attention to him. He stood near the door with his arms folded over his chest, and he looked really worn out. Really, it was clear that he just wanted to leave at this point.

            I held up the paper. “For all we know, it could be a hint for the code.” I said.

            “For all we know, it could be completely unrelated to us.” Mortensen countered. “Leave them.”

            “No way.” I replied as I gathered the rest of the papers off of the floor. Mortensen threw his hands up in exasperation, but did not argue.

            “Can we go now, then?” He asked once I had folded the papers into my coat pocket, as I was not necessarily worried about them getting wet.

            “Yes. Let us return to the lobby.”

            Mortensen led the way back to the platform and we returned upstairs to the B1 level. We stepped through the red fire exit (???) door and stepped back into the lobby. Again, the lights snapped off.

            “Oh, fuck this shit.” The detective grabbed my arm and dragged me to the wall. The first door we tried did not budge. “Try the other fucking doors! Help me out!”

            We struggled with doors until I found out that the second closest one to the corner opened.  
            “Mortensen! In here!”

            Mortensen and I rushed inside, and the door closed behind us.

            “Why does that keep happening?!” I shouted.

            “It wants me.” Mortensen responded. “God, it’s fucking toying with me.”

            “Yes, and what does that mean?”

            Mortensen looked at me with wide, frightened eyes. “It’s toying with me because it knows that it can. It knows I can’t escape…”

            I shook my head in denial. “Mortensen, come on. You’re just being paranoid now.”

            “It won’t let me escape…!”

            “Mortensen.”

            “God, it’s gonna fuckin’ get me…!”

            “ _Elliot._ ”

            “ _DON’T_ use that fucking name right now.” Mortensen warned, now aggressive all of the sudden. “You do _NOT_ want to do that right now.”

            I figuratively backed off, having been shut down. “Alright, fine. Sorry.”

            “It gets jealous.” Mortensen explained. He looked to be just about at his limit with the amount of stress he could stand. I knew sticking with the case would be bad for his mental health, but no one bloody listened to me.

            Taking my eyes off of Mortensen, I finally looked around the room. It was a smaller testing room, it seemed. There was another cabinet filled with chemicals and samples and whatnot, and in the middle of the room, there was a table, on top of which there was something.

            “What’s that?” I asked, gesturing at whatever was on the slick black surface.

            Mortensen hesitantly approached the table and looked at what was there. When he caught a clear glimpse of it, however, he chuffed in disbelief and stumbled back into the wall.

            “What is it?” I asked as I stepped forward. Mortensen only shook his head, rather distressed, so I took a look for myself. On the table was a photograph of Mortensen, standing in between the Callahan brothers, whose faces were scratched out. The very sight of the photograph was unnerving, even for me, so I could only imagine how upset Mortensen was. I looked back at the detective, who was now tugging at his hair like he had during his nervous breakdown weeks earlier.  
            “Mortensen…” I murmured gently.

            The sleuth, dark rings under his eyes from lack of sleep and all of the added stress he was experiencing presently, suddenly stood up and moved a bit closer. “Turn it over.” He commanded.

            “What?”

            “I want to see what’s on the back.”

            Reluctantly, I picked up the photograph and turned it over. Written on the back, in red (was it blood?!) was:  
           _JE NE TE QUITTERAI JAMAIS 522950_.

            “Cheshire, maybe it’s a code.” Mortensen suggested with sudden certainty.

            “What do you mean?” I questioned, rightfully confused by how he had come to that conclusion so quickly.

            “The answer could be my name.” He said, and began pointing at the digits. “Look, the number of digits matches the number of letters in ‘Elliot’.”

            “Hmm…” Mortensen probably did have a point, I realized. I mean, his name _was_ carved into a bloody wall earlier. “If that’s really what it is, then perhaps it was left for us to find deliberately. Maybe it’s a hint for the code to open the exit!”

            “That’s a good idea, actually…” Mortensen smiled warmly at me, and added: “You really haven’t lost your touch, Chesh.”

            I smiled back before returning my attention to the code. We were missing something.  
            “But then, hold on… What exactly does that sentence written in French say?”

            “Um… I…” Mortensen squirmed. “I don’t know.”

            I looked back at him. “Wait. You _don’t_ know? But, Detective Mortensen, don’t you hail from France? Shouldn’t you be capable of understanding how to read and write the French language?”

            Mortensen laughed nervously. “Believe it or not,” He said, “French isn’t actually my first language…”

            I sighed. There was no point in accusing him of being a liar. “Alright then, whatever. I’m sure it’s not that important anyways. Let’s just work with your theory.”

            “The big question now is figuring out what the hell to _do_ with this code.” Mortensen announced, and I realized that he was right. Even if this was a hint, what bloody good did it do us?

            Finding nothing else of any great use, Mortensen and I left the testing room. Nothing occurred this time, so we began heading back toward the security room, though we made sure to walk quickly just in case something happened again.

            “Hold on.” I said as we returned to the area where we had started.

            “What?” Mortensen turned back for me, as he had been determined to return to the room Southwell was in.

            I pointed at the elevator, which was right beside the door to the security room. “We turned this on, correct?”

            “I guess so.” The detective responded.

            “Let’s check out another floor.”

            “No, Cheshire.” Mortensen denied. “I want to go home. Let’s just work with what we have.”

            “There might be another hint on the second floor!” I insisted. I needed to know what was up there. What was the saying? Curiosity killed the cat? That was certainly applicable here.

            Mortensen sighed and reluctantly agreed to go with me. I pressed the call button for the elevator, and after a moment, it dinged and the doors opened. I stepped onto the chequered floor of the elevator and Mortensen followed suit. The doors closed after I pressed the button labelled “2”.

            After a brief beat of silence, Mortensen said, “I’m sorry that you had to get involved in this.” I looked at him; his head was down as if he was ashamed. He continued, “This is _my_ case, after all, and it wants me. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be caught up in this mess right now.”

            “Nonsense.” I told him. “You promised me that you would keep me by your side no matter what. We are a team.” However, the more I thought about what I was saying, the more I, to my surprise, began to have second thoughts. For some reason, Patefield’s words returned to me.

            “ _But you can’t deny that it crossed your mind at least once. You know… Imagining ripping him apart with your bare hands, feeling the power of having—_ ”

            I shook my head, but could not shake my bad feeling away. Mortensen and I were not good for one another, I realized. At any moment, I could snap and hurt him. Whereas on his side, he apparently had a paranormal stalker that wanted him all to itself. We would do each other no good in the end. However, did I really have the guts to leave?

            The elevator doors opened on the second floor, and Mortensen and I shared a look. Was it possible that he was thinking what I was thinking? I doubted it, so I said nothing. We stepped out of the elevator and found ourselves standing in a hallway filled with doors. I glanced to the left and froze.

            _There was blood on the floor._

            I smacked Mortensen’s shoulder and he saw it too.  
           “Holy shit,” He moaned. We simply stared at the trail of blood that led into another office for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, I took charge of the situation and marched forward to the door in front of us. I swung it open, but there was nothing of interest inside. The door beside it as well. However, the furthest door down the hall had a large screen in it, and a panel. I stepped into the room, and Mortensen followed me closely.

            “What do you think this room is used for?” I asked as I approached the panel.

            “Fuck if I know.” Mortensen replied bluntly.

            On the panel, I noticed that it was requesting a three digit code. Curious, I decided to type in “373”, as I had seen the number on one of the test summaries. Mortensen and I looked at the screen as it suddenly began to display a recording of some sort. Our earpieces then began to beep, so we both pressed a button on the side to accept the incoming transmission.

            “What are you guys doing?” Southwell asked on the other end.

            Mortensen pressed down on his earpiece to reply. “We found something.” He said.

            “Yeah, I can tell! I can see this shit on…” Southwell trailed off. I brought my attention to the screen, and I too found myself speechless.

            On the screen, much to my shock, was… Oliver Roarke.  
           I shook my head. There was no way. The subject’s name was Terrence Lyndon according to the document I picked up, and on the screen, I could tell that his hair was darker than Roarke’s. Yet, I saw him for no more than a second and immediately recognized him as Oliver. I clutched the panel, and Mortensen must have noticed my alarm, for he stepped back a bit to give me some space.

            “What a twist of events.” One of the Crimson Cove workers, a man with a deep voice, bragged. “First you have control over everyone, then next, we have control over you.”

            “I don’t know what you’re blabbering on about.” The voice that I recognized as being that of Oliver Roarke replied. My heart ached. He was alive…! My God, he… _he was alive!_

            “Don’t play dumb.” A woman snapped. “We know who you _really_ are, Roarke.”

            _It was him!!_

            “I don’t know who that is…” Oliver replied. “My name is Terrence Lyndon, for crying out loud! You’re making a mistake!”

            “The Central Intelligence Agency is about to lose another agent. Why they even hired you all those goddamned years ago is beyond me.” The first man grumbled. The Central Intelligence Agency? Did Southwell know Oliver? Was that why he had also gone silent?

            “You don’t have the balls.” Oliver countered. “You bastards don’t have the bloody nerve to try anything!”

            “Do you know what we’re going to do to you, Roarke?” The woman asked. She had something in her hand. Was it… a needle?

            “What?” Oliver snapped. “What are you going to do to me? Whatever you try, it won’t work!”

            “We’ve got the Eclipse Poison finished now, Oliver.”

            Oliver said nothing.

            “We need a test subject. How about following in the footsteps of the creator of the Eclipse Potion, huh?”

            “Get away from me with that needle.”

            “This might hurt.”

            “ _Get away from me!!_ ”

            My heart broke as I watched the struggle take place. Oliver fought to resist their efforts, but he was bound up and stood no chance. They injected the Eclipse Poison into his arm and I brought my hand to my mouth.

            “Mordecai…” Oliver mumbled. He then began to scream my name. “Mordecai! _MORDECAAAI!!_ ”

            I could not watch anymore. I looked down and covered my ears, pinching my eyes shut as well.

            I was too late… Oliver had been alive all this time, and I had no idea…!

            I felt a hand on my shoulder, so I whipped around. Mortensen was there. Having noticed my distress, he had stepped forward to comfort me. Unable to resist, I threw myself against him, clinging to him and burying my face into his chest. I dug my fingers into his coat and tried not to cry.  
           I was such a failure.

            Mortensen held me, and I could hear his steady heartbeat.  
            “I’m sorry.” He said. He was not a man of sympathy, but clearly, he did feel bad for me.

            “Let’s get out of here.” I replied, turning my sadness into strong determination. “Let’s get Southwell to crack the code, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

* * *

 

            Mortensen and I returned to the security room, where Southwell was. I noticed right off the bat that Southwell appeared to be distraught by what he witnessed, which only further suggested that he knew Oliver, or rather Terrence Lyndon.

            “Southwell,” Mortensen began, either not noticing or not caring that Southwell was upset, “we can’t figure out the code on this panel. Could you try to crack it?”

            Southwell looked at us, trying to seem casual. “Um… I guess…” He said. “You sure you want me to crack it?”

            “Yeah.” Mortensen confirmed. “We’re stumped.”

            “Alright, then. I’ll give it a shot.”

            The two of us waited patiently for Southwell to work. I felt bad for the young man and wanted to comfort him, but doing so would likely injure not just my pride, but his as well. After a few minutes of awkward silence, Southwell finally spoke.

            “I cracked the code, guys!” He said.

            Mortensen, who had been trying to rest his eyes while standing upright, suddenly straightened himself.  
            “Cheshire, get Southwell out of here, would you?” He asked. “I’m gonna go get the others!”

            I wanted to refuse, but something told me there was no point. He had something he really wanted to do on his own, and all I could do was pray that he would be fine.  
            “If you’re certain about this decision…” I sighed. “Then please, be careful.”

            “I’ll catch up.” Mortensen hurried out of the room, leaving me alone with Southwell. I shook my head, uncertain if I had made the correct decision by letting him run off on his own. Mortensen himself was the one that insisted we not split up, and yet there he went, just like that. However, instead of dwelling upon it, I decided to simply do as I was told.

            I turned to Southwell. “Southwell, come on. We need to go.”

            “I—I can’t.” He told me.

            I narrowed my eyes. “Well… Why not?”

            “Carmine…” He answered. “It’s… It’s Carmine.”

            “Who’s Carmine?”

            “The artificial intelligence I made…”

            I rolled my eyes and growled. Frankly, I did not have time for Southwell’s bullshit. “Southwell, come on, let’s go.” I demanded. “It’s nothing more than a bloody worthless machine. It can be rebuilt.”

            To my surprise, Southwell suddenly became defensive, and he whipped around to glare at me. “Shut up!” He shouted. “Carmine… Carmine may not be alive, but he’s my friend! My _best_ friend! I… can’t… I can’t leave him behind!”

            His ignorance infuriated me.  
            “Your life is far more important than that of the mere existence of a few lines of code on a computer!!” I exploded. Southwell gasped, but I was not finished yet. “I’m not going to sit back and watch you throw your life away over something so trivial! You’re coming with me. I am going to keep you _alive._ After Autumnwolf, that’s what I vowed. I vowed never to let anyone die so long as I could help it, and I can save you, so stop being a bloody moron!!”

            Southwell lowered his head and paused before speaking. “Dr. Cheshire, I… I want you to have something.” That said, he reached around his neck and undid a clasp. He pulled up a silver key on a chain and held it so I could see it. I, meanwhile, was rather stunned. I had been under the impression that Southwell held me in distaste and wanted nothing to do with me.

            “What’s it for?” I asked, uncertain.

            “I honestly don’t know…” Southwell admit. “A good friend gave it to me.” It did not take a genius to realize that he was referring to Terrence Lyndon. “Turn around for a second so I can put it on you.” Hesitantly, I obeyed, and I felt Southwell drape the chain around my throat.  
            “There.” He said, then backed away somewhat. I turned to face him.

            “But… why are you giving it to _me?_ ” I questioned. I was grateful to be in possession of something to remind me of Oliver, even if he had been going by a different name, but the fact that Southwell was giving it to me gave me a bad feeling.

            Southwell shrugged. Gently, he said, “I won’t ever have a use for it, but… I’m almost certain that you will.” He tilted his head a bit and smiled at me. “Go find what this key unlocks for me, ‘kay?”

            Silently, I nodded, and the young man’s smile grew.

            “Maybe you’re not all that bad after all…” He remarked. “I guess I can’t hate you forever. I hope you don’t hate me, heh…?” I was so stunned by his unexpected friendliness that I didn’t respond. I almost wish I had, for he frowned when he realized that I was not going to give him an answer.  
            “Run along now, Cheshire…” He said as he turned toward the panel once more. “I’ll see you outside once I’ve figured out what’s up with Carmine.”

            With a sigh, I returned to the computer that opened the exit. A prompt was open, asking me if I would like to open all of the exits. Instead of opening them just yet, I decided to wait for Mortensen. Would he return to the security room for me, or would he try to leave? My hand hovered over the button to confirm the prompt. I could not bring myself to do it yet for some reason, so I walked out of the security room.

            Just seconds after the door closed behind me, I heard a loud buzz resound throughout the facility. Over the intercoms, which I had only just noticed, a broken song began to play. I recognized it.

            It was A Kind of Hush by The Carpenters, one of the songs that Malachy had played while I was with him.

            “ _Mortensen!_ ” I shouted almost instinctively as I began to rush around the lobby. Where was he? I sprinted to the control room, but not even Calhoon was there anymore. Almost without thinking, I dashed out and returned to the security room, where I practically slammed my hand down to confirm the prompt. Once I did, alarms began to blare, and the red lights I had seen on the walls began to flash, drowning the white rooms in crimson. The music over the P.A. system stopped as suddenly as it had begun. I took one last glance at Southwell before running out of the security room.

            A loud noise that made my ears ring combined with a force that threw me to the floor as the door started to shut behind me made me pinch my eyes shut. For a long moment, I simply laid there, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. The faint smell of rising smoke was what made me finally open my eyes, and I sat up.

            The door to the security room was stuck open, and I could see inside. Just inside the now-dark room, in front of the doorway, laid…

            “ _Southwell!!_ ” I scurried over to Southwell, not bothering to stand. His blood was on the floor, droplets of it from the panel to where he laid. He did not look too wounded, so I checked for a pulse.

            He was deceased. Shocked and confused, I lowered my head numbly. What the hell had today come to? I searched for something to do or say, but there was a lump in my throat. I simply sat there for a while beside Southwell’s body. Finally, I found something to say.

            “I never hated you, Southwell…”

            I soon recovered from my paralyzing shock and stood. After another moment of respectful grieving, I realized that I had to leave.

            I should have forced him to leave with me.

* * *

 

            All I ever did was cause harm. That appears to be something I’m good at, even now, whether I like it or not.

            When I walked out of the lobby to the four-way fork that led to one of the exits, I found Mortensen standing there, staring at the exit. He did not notice me yet, so I spoke up.

            “Mortensen!” I called. “Oh, there you are! Quickly now. We need to get out of here.”

            As I approached, Mortensen turned and looked at me. Obviously very relieved to see me, more so than he probably should have been, he exclaimed, “Cheshire…!” He then pointed toward the doorway ahead of us, which appeared to lead into a stairwell.  
            “The exit must be ahead!” He said. “Let’s go!”

            As we jogged toward the stairs, I asked: “Calhoon? Florence?”

            “They ran off!” Mortensen replied. I decided to accept that answer.

            The two of us ran up the stairwell two steps at a time. Mortensen was ahead of me, so when he stopped, I nearly slammed into him. It was very dark up there, but for the open doorway ahead of us, which was blinding. It almost looked like a portal to the afterlife (“Don’t go into the light!”) or something, which is why Elliot and I took one last long look at each other.

            “Do we want to do this?” He asked.

            “Do we have a choice?” I responded.

            Slowly, Elliot stepped into the light. I lingered in the dark for a long moment, however, as my thoughts ran rampant.

            Elliot would be safe out there, of that I was sure. If I joined him, would I do anything more than hurt him? I took a deep, hitched breath. If I was to join him on the other side, I would have no choice. No amount of apologies could make up for what I had decided would be the best thing for him. Feeling rather dead inside, I stepped into the light as well.

* * *

 

            “What are we doing out here…?”

            Hearing Elliot’s voice, I opened my eyes. Ahead of me was a street in Elizabeth. I glanced over my shoulder. Behind me was the same street. Elliot had a point; how in the bloody hell did that doorway place us here? There was not even a doorway back. It made no sense. However, I decided to stop thinking out it. I had something I needed to do.

            I started to walk ahead, and Elliot followed a few paces behind.

            “Hey, Cheshire, wait up.” He said casually.

            I stopped. “Please, Detective Mortensen.” I replied as I turned to face him. “Don’t follow me.”

            “Cheshire…?” He sounded concerned. Did he know what I meant?

            I kept my head lowered, as I could not bring myself to meet his gaze.  
            “Look, I…” My emotions were beginning to get the better of my voice. “I can’t keep doing this to you! I’m not at all who you think I am, Mortensen! You’re not safe with me…”

            “What are you talking about…?” Elliot asked.

            “I killed Ragsdale!” I shouted. “I nearly killed Patefield, and then I made you kill Malachy! I’ve even gone so far as…” I stopped when the memories of Autumnwolf flooded back to me. “Do you remember?”

            “Remember what?” Elliot was growing impatient, as though he believed I was falsely accusing myself.

            “How I lied to Florence and told him my surname was Chester?”

            “Yeah…?” The detective rolled his eyes. “Get to the point, Cheshire!”

            “I convinced him to let Collin Locklear go.” I confessed. “There was no blame on Locklear’s head. I…” My voice began to crack. “ _I_ had killed his entire crew…” Elliot’s mouth fell somewhat agape, but he said nothing, so I continued.  
            “I even strangled a pregnant woman with her own unborn child’s umbilical cord.” I needed him to hate me. “I can’t seem to remember _why_ I did any of it, but I do distinctly remember it.” I looked down at my hands and could almost see the blood from that night coating my gloves. “I’m the one who framed Locklear…”

            “You…” Elliot finally managed to speak. “You were the one that killed the whole of Autumnwolf?” He shook his head. “You know this all sounds insane, right?”

            I belted out an impatient growl. “You’re missing the point entirely, Mortensen!” I yelled. “Patefield helped me realize that I’m not all that different…! And I’m liable to lose my mind again…!” I felt my lips beginning to quiver. “And when I do that, what happens if I… I…”

            Elliot chuckled, apparently trying to laugh off my words. “Cheshire, relax.” He told me. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

            “I can’t be sure of that!” I argued, becoming even more emotional. “I—…” I looked at him. God, I loved him. That was my problem. I, however, felt it would be too cruel to confess my feelings in whole at a time like this: during our final goodbye…  
            “I’m fond of you, Detective Mortensen.” I told him. “I can’t risk staying around and hurting you! So… Please…” I turned my back to him. “Don’t try to stop me…”

            I only made it a couple of steps before Elliot shouted, “ _THAT’S NOT FAIR!_ ” Slowly, hesitantly, I turned to face him. He looked like he was about to cry, but he was displaying his emotion as aggression instead.  
            “Don’t you _dare_ do this to me.” He said. “Don’t you _dare_ tell me you’re ‘ _fond of me_ ’ and then immediately leave me! We’re sticking _together_ , Cheshire!”

            I was moved by his desire to stay with me, but I shook my head. There was no going back now.  
            “I’m… I’m dreadfully sorry for all this. But it’s for your own good, Detective.” I took one final stare at him, finally meeting his eyes. He looked so desperate for me to stay, but I was blind to his feelings.  
            “Goodbye, Elliot.”

            “CHESHIRE!” I heard him cry out as I marched ahead without him. “ _CHESH!_ ” His voice broke and he began to cough, and it was not too soon after that I heard him begin to sob quietly. However, I did not turn back, because if I did, I would have no choice but to return to him. I honestly thought I was making the better decision of two evils, but… I was about to learn that I was, very often, incorrect in my judgments. I will forever regret my decision to leave Elliot that way. If I had only know what was to come, I would have, without a doubt, confessed my feelings and stayed by his side for as long as possible.

            Elliot… I’m so sorry.


	28. Chapter 28

            During the six years leading up to 2027, I spent most of my time either alone in Southfield or trying to talk the Central Intelligence Agency, who were still more or less wrapped around my finger since I was a valuable piece of history (or a human test subject) to them, into getting me the credentials to become a psychiatrist. I read up on the subject and profession as often as I could, trying to keep my mind off of Elliot Mortensen. It was not easy, but by 2025, I had convinced myself that I would never see him again, and that thinking of him was nothing but pointless self-torture. However, still, I could not get him off of my mind, not entirely. My memories tormented me, but I refused to give into my desire to see him. It was better this way, I assured myself.

            From December to at least February of 2021, I would occasionally see Elliot’s car drive past my home. He did not know where I lived, of course, so it did not take long for me to realize that he was simply driving past every house he could, waiting for me to come out and stop him. After February, however, he stopped doing it. I was concerned at first that perhaps he had wound up in a car accident, but I reassured myself that he had merely given up… which, somehow, was not very comforting.

            In late May of 2023, life in New Jersey and the states surrounding it finally began to return to what it had been prior to 2019, as news of Ruler Eternal’s supposed demise at the hands of a military soldier named David Henseler flooded the headlines. The news was surprising to say the least, as I had not expected anyone other than Ruler Eternal himself to take the man down. During 2023, World War III also ended. I was unaware that World War III had ever started, to be honest (as I was that there had ever been two other such wars), but apparently it had started sometime in 2018 and had mostly been everyone against Russia, including Russia. Yes, Russia against Russia. The news meant nothing to me, half because I had no context for it, and half because it did not really make sense to me.

            In 2024, I finally noticed that my bleached bangs now had black roots. Instead of accepting this, I decided to purchase more bleach, and with it, I turned all of my hair blond. I left my eyebrows and chinstrap as they were, however, as bleaching my eyebrows would only result in it looking as though I lacked eyebrows altogether, and I quite liked the contrast given from blond hair and black facial hair. After I had done it, however, I realized that my hair colour reminded me of Oliver and Elliot, who both had light blond hair, however it reminded me more so of Oliver, as his hair had been almost platinum, as mine was now. At that moment, I lowered my head in shame. If only I had listened to my intuition and looked for him… Perhaps I would have found him before he was killed, as the test document suggested he had been.

            By early 2027, I had finally become a psychiatrist. The process had likely been much easier for me than it was for most people, and for that I was grateful, but I felt bad. I was favoured by the government for my immortality, and I felt as though that was not fair, but if I were to complain, it would severely impact me, as my diplomas were all forged by the CIA.

            For my occupation, I was given an office to work in, as well as a secretary. I had expected a male, but when I entered my office for the first time, I was surprised to see a tiny Asian woman there. She was cute, however, I could give her that much, but I felt doubtful about how useful she’d be.

            When she saw me, the girl took a deep bow. “Hello, sir.” She stammered, sounding somewhat nervous. “I’m your secretary, Hua Lan Shan.”

            “Ms. Shan,” I said, “what is that book you are holding?”

            “It’s a… an appointment book, sir.” She answered as she stood up from her bow but still kept her head down. Something about her was striking me as familiar. Without much warning, as I will admit I had become somewhat rude and distant without a friend around, I grabbed her chin and forced her to look up at me. She immediately grew tense, her black eyes staring into my green nervously. Yes, she did look familiar.

            “Did you have a sister?” I asked. The odds were slim, but I needed to know.

            Ms. Shan averted her eyes from mine and frowned. “Yes.” She answered. “I _did_.”

            “Was she married to a man named Patefield?”

            Her eyes met mine again, as she was surprised that I knew that. “My God,” She gasped, “You really _are_ a clairvoyant, aren’t you?”

            I released her chin. “Nonsense. I am not a clairvoyant. I simply have a good memory.”

            “Then how do you know my sister was married to Dustin Patefield?” She asked.

            “I used to work with a detective.” I answered. “He was on the case of your sister’s murder.” I decided to omit the fact that I had met Mrs. Patefield prior to her death, however. I was not sure how Ms. Shan would respond.

            The girl in front of me lowered her head. “I feel bad about feeling this way, but I’m glad that man is dead. I can never forgive him for what he did to my big sister…”

            “Do not feel bad, Ms. Shan,” I told her, “It’s entirely normal to feel that way.”

            I got plenty of clients. Most were simply people overreacting over stresses from their daily lives, and very rarely did they need anything other than prescriptions for anti-anxiety medication. Most did not even need that, and only required someone to vent to. I was, however, usually their best option in terms of someone to discuss their problems with, as I charged as little as I could. Money was not a big concern to me, as I did not technically need to eat. Ms. Shan would often complain that I should make more than her, as I would usually ensure that most of our earnings went to her. I would always avoid the subject, though, as without context, “I don’t need money to survive” sounds foolish and stubborn.

            On October 15th, Ms. Shan rushed into my office. She looked excited, yet somewhat startled.

            “What?” I asked after she did nothing but stare at me for a good twenty seconds.

            “You’ve got a walk-in client.” She said flatly.

            “Alright?” I did not understand the significance of that statement until she spoke again.

            “It’s Mike McAtten!” Alright, I still did not understand why she was excited.

            “Who?”

            “You don’t know Mike McAtten?” She asked in disbelief. “Attention? He used to be a super big celebrity! An A-Lister for sure! He was on that old TV show, SIMULATOR.”

            “Was that all he was known for?” I asked. “I don’t watch television.”

            “No, he was really big before that.” She told me. “But he fell out of the limelight in 2012 or something like that.” Well, that explained why I knew nothing of him: I had not been out in society again until 2014.

            “Are you going to let him into my office, or are you going to let him stay out there alone?” I asked rhetorically.

            “He’s not alone.” She replied. “He’s got another SIMULATOR star with him.”

            I crossed my arms and raised a brow at her, trying to let her know that she had missed the point.

            “Oh!” Finally catching on, the girl rushed back out into the lobby. After a moment, McAtten, a man wearing a yellow mask, walked in. The mask covered his entire head, but from the back and a hole in the front came long black hair. On the front of the mask, over his face, was an expression of some sort, with squinty eyes that looked like carets and a large cartoony grin with two vertical lines to create the illusion of three teeth. He wore a black suit with a light lavender-coloured tie, and he was quite the sight to behold, especially since he stood at, at least, 6’2”.

            I was looking with my eyes for the other person he was with, only to be startled to discover that his guest stood at only 5’6”. The shorter man had a pointy chin and wore gray glasses, but those were not what caught my eye; instead, it was his hair, which was long. It was black in the back, but the side of his bangs to his left was bright yellow like McAtten’s mask, and the side to his right was a bright orange. He wore a black turtleneck sweater, a light brown duster coat, and dark red dress pants. Sticking out from his elbows and knees were sharp silver spikes that appeared to actually be part of him.

            I have to admit, those two were the most… interesting clients I ever had, at least in terms of appearance. I was very stunned, but I opted not to say anything about either of them. Without my instruction, McAtten took his seat in front of my desk, and his guest took a seat on the couch near the door they’d entered through, which was to my right. There were two entrances into my office, but the one to my left, only Ms. Shan was permitted to enter through.

            “What’s ailing you, McAtten?” I asked, though something told me I already knew what it was.

            “I—it’s this stupid mask, Doc…!” He replied, rather nervous.

            “And why does this mask bother you?” I questioned.

            “Isn’t it obvious?” He responded. “It brings way too much attention to me!”

            The man he brought with him chuckled. “Funny, you used to love that…” He said.

            “Shaddup, Jack.” McAtten quipped back.

            “Well, why do you keep wearing it, then?” I inquired. “Why not simply take it off?”

            McAtten turned his head toward the floor in what could have been shame. “Well, I spent so long convinced that people would die if I didn’t have the mask on, and now I can’t bring myself to take it off…”

            I thought I had heard it all, but McAtten’s explanation boggled my mind. I kept my feelings hidden, though.  
            “Oh? Is that so? Tell me more about what caused you to believe that.”

            “I messed up. And I got confused.” He told me. “Next thing I knew, I’d had this guy fired and was trying to track down a fucking serial killer so I could be _friendly_ with him!” He looked at me, or at least I assumed he did, as I could not tell with his mask on. “I need help getting used to the idea of going outside with this stupid mask off.” He pleaded.

            Really, the entire situation was easily solved. I wondered why I had been required.  
            “Well, I’m afraid there isn’t much that I can do for you, Mr. McAtten. You need to take care of this yourself. However…” I leaned forward somewhat. “Would you kindly remove your mask for me?”

            McAtten jolted back in shock. “Wh—what?! Are you crazy?!”

            “For fuck’s sake, Mike, just do it.” His friend scolded his extreme reaction. “This guy, surprisingly enough, might be onto something.”

            McAtten turned to face me, and I stared at him, trying to look comforting.  
            “Really? B—but I—!” He turned his head from me and let out an uneasy breath. “F—fine then.” Then, reluctantly, he reached up, grabbing the bottom of the mask. He slowly pulled it up, off of his head. His long black hair nearly covered his face, but I could still make out most of it. He was quite attractive, I suppose. His eyes were green, like mine. He looked at me quietly for a moment before speaking.  
            “There, are you happy now?” After a long silence, he fidgeted somewhat. “Please say something.”

            “Mike, relax.” His friend said. “It’s fine.”

            I took my chance to speak. “Oh, do forgive me. I was just admiring your features.”

            McAtten seemed surprised. “A—… Admiring me…?”

            I nodded. “Yes. You’re remarkably handsome.” I was stretching the truth just a tad. He was not remarkably handsome. Compared to Elliot, he was mediocre at best. Realizing I was thinking of the detective again, I pushed my comparison aside.

            “I…” Stunned speechless, McAtten made a few incomprehensible noises before smiling. “Thanks.” He said warmly.

            “Now, I want you to leave without your mask on.” I instructed. “Show Ms. Shan on your way out. Next time you feel like you need the mask on, call me.”

            He nodded as he stood. “I’ll try… I’ll see you around, Doc.” With that, McAtten left, and as he walked out, his friend walked up to my desk.

            “You made that seem remarkably fucking easy.” The shorter man said.

            “Yes, I most certainly do that sometimes.” I told him, not caring if I seemed conceited.

            “You’re not half bad a psychiatrist, Dr. Cheshire.” He told me. “You’ve earned my respect.” He left as well, and then I was alone in my office.

            Suddenly, I had a bad feeling. Something had gone wrong. I placed my elbows on my desk, and my hands underneath my chin as I leaned forward. What was bothering me? I had nothing to be worried about, but abruptly, I was very anxious and scared about something.

            Then, Ms. Shan rushed in. I should have known better than to question my instincts.

            “Dr. Cheshire?” She asked. After coming further into the room, she bowed shakily. “Sorry to intrude, Doctor, but…”

            “What is it, Ms. Shan?” I questioned. Oh God. What had happened?

            She stood up. “It’s a call, Doctor… from the hospital. They kept calling and saying it’s an emergency. Something about a Mr. Mortensen…”

            My eyes widened, and I felt all of my hairs stand on end. That explained the bad feeling.  
            “What?! Mortensen?!” I shouted, jumping to my feet. “Quickly! Tell me everything they said!”

            “He’s to be treated for stage four lung cancer, but he refuses…” She looked up at me, her brows furrowed. Certainly, she did not understand how much this information was affecting me, but she seemed to be sympathetic at least. “… and says that he’ll keep refusing, until he sees you.”

            “Oh my God…” I brought my hand to my mouth. Lung cancer? His coughing… Had he known all along? That lie he told me, that he was fine… Why had I let him lie to me?!

            “Dr. Cheshire, do you know this man?” Ms. Shan asked gently.

            “Yes, he’s…” I shook my head. “Watch the office while I’m gone! I _need_ to see him!”

            As I rushed to dash out, Ms. Shan shouted, “But the hospital is in New Providence!” I already knew that, however. God, he had stayed put, hadn’t he? Had he been waiting for me to return? It was too late to kick myself for being stubborn. I had to see him.

* * *

 

            Within three hours, I was at the hospital in New Providence. I ran into the lobby up to the front desk, and as I careened in, the woman standing behind the desk asked,  
            “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

            I slammed my hands down on the desk, causing her to jump a bit.  
            “Mortensen!” I shouted. “I’m looking for Detective Elliot Mortensen. Where is he?”

            “Oh, I…” She turned to the computer, but then turned back to me. “One moment, please. Can you tell me who you are?”

            “Goddammit, woman! Why does it bloody matter who I am? I’m whatever I need to be to see him, now _please_ tell me where he is!” I was rightfully impatient, though perhaps a bit too cross with her, as she proceeded to frown at me.

            “I’m afraid I can’t, sir.” She told me.

            “Oh, bloody hell—! I’m Dr. Cheshire!” I snapped. “He’s been asking to see me!”

            “I’ll need to ask somebody about that…”

            I was sick of her holding me back. “Oh, damn it all to Hell.” I mumbled under my breath. I stood there for a moment before abruptly taking off in a mad dash down the hall.

            “Sir, come back!” She hollered.

            “ _MORTENSEN!!_ ” I screamed, not caring what she chose to do about me. All that mattered was finding Elliot. I poked my head into several rooms in the cancer centre before I finally found him.

            I was horrified to find Elliot hooked to several pieces of equipment to stabilize him. There was an oxygen mask strapped to his face, and I could hear him take slow, wheezing inhales of it. My legs felt weak as I stumbled closer to him, the door closing itself behind me.

            He looked so pale… His skin was so desaturated that it almost looked grey. The bags under his eyes were dark and very noticeable. His hair, once blond, had become a dark shade of white with only the faintest tinge of yellow. As he was wearing only a hospital gown, I could see his bare arm since it was over the bed sheets, and it was thin and bony. His eyes were shut, but he did not appear to be in pain; in fact, he almost looked angelic. I felt my eyes begin to well up, but I blinked rapidly to compose myself. Slowly, I took my place beside his bed, standing to his right.

            “Mortensen…?” I had trouble finding my voice at first, but I did manage to speak up after a few beats.

            Elliot groaned quietly before his eyes fluttered half-open, and he looked up at me. “Ch—… Cheshire?” He spoke in a tired, hoarse voice. God, seeing him like this was already killing me.

            “Why, hello there…” I said, my voice beginning to tremble in sadness and regret even though I was trying to sound casual.

            Elliot chuckled. “Heh heh… I knew you’d come…” After he said this, he let out a single cough, obviously trying to control his body’s urge to break into a full-on fit.

            “Mortensen, you…” I trailed off, trying not to let my emotions seize me. “You told me that cough was nothing…! How long did you know…?”

            “Quite a while, actually…” He admit before coughing a little bit more: three coughs this time.

            It was no use. My voice was beginning to crack. “Well then, why…?!” I demanded. “Why did you choose to lie to me? I could’ve helped you… Could’ve saved you from this…!”

            Elliot smiled a bit. “I didn’t want you to worry… But… I feel like my time’s come, and…” He coughed. “… you never let me say goodbye properly…”

            I shook my head, almost wildly. “No, please, d—don’t say shit like that…!” I was in denial. “You’re not going to die here, Mortensen… I’m not about to let you…!”

            “No, it’s… It’s over, Cheshire…” Elliot told me. “I just wanted to tell you—”

            “No.” I snapped. My eyes were welling up again, and a tear slid down my face before I could do anything about it. “No, you listen to me.” My voice was beginning to break. “You are going to make it through this, Mortensen. I won’t let you leave this world too…” I let out a small hiccup against my will. “Anyone, _please…!_ Anyone but you!” With my eyes pinched shut and tears now streaming down my face, I gave in to my urge to sob. This could not be happening. I refused to believe it…! Then, by chance, I looked up and noticed the IV bag. It was connected to Elliot’s arm. Suddenly, I had an idea, and I turned toward it, looking around the room frantically.

            “Cheshire, what are you doing…?” Elliot asked, sounding a tad bit concerned that I was about to act before I thought, which was very likely the case.

            “M—my blood…” I told him. “It’s made of Eclipse Potion. I can still save you…!”

            It took him a lot of effort, but he managed to slightly shake his head. “Cheshire, no…” He refused and then coughed twice more, now beginning to sound a tad more pained. He should not have been talking to begin with.

            I could not lose him… I had already been away from him for much too long. I had things I needed to tell him. I needed to make more memories with him. I wanted to stay with him and make up for my mistakes! I had betrayed his trust, and I needed to rebuild it…! I loved him… How was I supposed to just let him go?!

            I whipped around to look at him, half blinded by my tears. “ _Why not?!_ ” I cried. When I got no answer, I collapsed to my knees and took his bony hand in mine. Even through my gloves, I could feel that his hands were quite cold. I quivered like a leaf there, overtaken by emotion.  
            “I don’t understand…” I sobbed. “You could live forever…! And I wouldn’t have to lose you…! No…!” I shook my head. “No, I _can’t_ lose you…!”

            Elliot let out a shaky breath not unlike a light sigh, and then trembled somewhat in pain before catching his breath again.  
            “Cheshire, I’m old.” He told me, determination in his weak voice. He coughed, but he again resisted the fit. “I’m tired, I’m in pain, and I just want this to end.” He looked at me, and our eyes met. “It’d be hell to live forever like this, you know that…” He said.

            “I… But… No, there just _has_ to be a way!”

            “I felt the exact same way about Emilie…” He told me. “I couldn’t let her go, and in the end, she lived longer than she should’ve… but she was suffering, because of me.” He looked at me again, pleading with his eyes for me to understand. “Please, Cheshire… Don’t make the same mistake with me… Believe me when I say you’ll hate yourself for it…”

            I lowered my head and tried to calm myself. It was over, wasn’t it? There was no more time. I would not be able to stay with him.  
            “Detective Mortensen… You… were always curious about my first name, weren’t you…? Well, it’s… It’s Mordecai.”

            “Mordecai, huh…?” Elliot smirked. “Heh, sounds old-fashioned… It suits you.”

            “I was hoping that, here at the end, we could at least… be on a first name basis with each other now…”

            “Of course, Mordecai…” He sounded pleased, of that much I am glad.

            “Elliot…”

            “I just wanted to let you know, Mordecai…” He paused, almost seeming embarrassed for a moment. Then, realizing that he was on his death bed, he pushed his nervousness aside. “I’m rather fond of you, as well. Just tell me you’ll be okay when I’m gone…”

            “I…” Another two tears ran down my cheeks, but I forced my voice not to crack this time. “If you… want me to be okay, I’ll try… but it will definitely take some time…”

            “Just don’t be sad too long…” He weakly pulled his arm from my hands, and his palm rested on top of my head. With his thumb, he gently stroked my hair, and then he said, “You’d better go now… Sounds like the staff are preparing an army out there, heh heh…” His chuckles descended into a wheezing cough.

            “I _will_ be seeing you again, Elliot.” I said with feigned confidence. “You’re going to pull though this just fine…”

            “Goodnight, Mordecai…” He said.

            I froze for a moment. This was it. This was my last moment with Elliot Mortensen.  
            “Goodnight… Elliot…”

            Elliot’s hand slid off of my head and back onto the bed, and, still staring at me, he slowly closed his eyes again. I continued to sit on the floor for what felt like an eternity, just staring at him.

            I did not want to leave, but he was right; I could hear a bit of a commotion down the hall, and it sounded like they were probably searching for me, since I had practically barged in uninvited. I took a deep, shaky breath and got to my feet, now gazing down at Elliot. I stayed put for a few seconds more before I leaned closer. I used my hand to push his bangs up, and then I moved in and gently placed my lips against his forehead. I held the kiss for a few beats, and another teardrop ran down my face. I felt it drip off of my face, and that was when I pulled back.

* * *

 

            When I got back to Southfield, I returned to my office. It was late, but Ms. Shan was still there. When I entered, she looked up at me for a moment before standing up. She said nothing, as did I, and after a pause, I walked past her and entered my office.

            I sat down behind my desk, and there I stayed until morning, with my head against the desk. I did not sleep. How could I?

            Around eight in the morning, I heard the phone ring in the lobby. It rung three times before it cut off, as Ms. Shan answered it. I stayed still, my mind numb. I knew what the call meant. I just did not want to realize it yet.

            After what must have been two minutes, Ms. Shan opened the door across the room to my left. I raised my head, but did nothing else.  
            “Dr. Cheshire…” She said sympathetically from the doorway. Then, she slowly walked further into the office. “Doctor, I’m so sorry… I… I just got a call from the hospital…”

            “He’s… dead, isn’t he...?” I asked flatly.

            Ms. Shan began to tear up. “I’m so sorry, Doctor…” She cried. “If you need anything, I’ll be… right outside…” She turned around and left my office, leaving me to feel in private. However, for a long moment, I did not feel. I just stared off into space, not really thinking or feeling anything.

            There was a sharp pang of emotional pain in my chest, and with it came the welling up of my eyes. I buried my face into my arms on my desk and began to cry.  
            “ _God, why… Why did you choose this…?_ ” I sobbed in complete anguish.

* * *

 

            I did not attend Elliot Mortensen’s funeral. I thought about it, but I realized that visiting his grave so soon would completely destroy me, as if his death alone had not… About a month later, however, I did visit his grave, which required of me to take a flight to Lyon, France. The particular day I went, the sky was dark and rain was pouring down heavily. It reminded me of that day where he and I had to walk through Pale Forest in the pouring rain. His smile… His voice… Everything about him had been haunting me ever since our final moment together.

            It did not take me too long to find his grave in the graveyard. He had been buried beside his wife, and there were fresh flowers on both graves. I stood in front of Elliot’s and simply stared at it for a while.

            Mortensen… Mortensen? What do I say about Detective Elliot Mortensen? There’s not enough to say, but at the same time, there’s… too much to say. He was my only friend. The one person I could trust with my life and more, and I… couldn’t save him. For that, I’m worthless. Everyone who’s ever trusted me has been let down. Even you… Even though I—

            “Cheshire?”

            I did not turn when I heard the voice of Simon Callahan. I knew he was standing behind me, and that probably meant that his taller brother was there as well.

            “Hey…” Callahan said. “For some reason, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

            “Is that so…” I replied, not bothering to take offense, as I had skipped the funeral.

            We were silent for a moment before Callahan sighed.  
            “I didn’t know he was in the hospital, you know.” He told me, sounding uncharacteristically solemn. “He never told me. He never told anyone… He only told you.”

            I did not reply. I was not curious as to how he knew that I had visited Elliot in the hospital. I did not care.

            “What Simon’s trying to say…” The taller Callahan brother, Frank, began, “is that Mortensen must have really cared about you… to let you know he was hurting.”

            I raised my head, suddenly aggressive. “He had never informed me that he was ever in any sort of pain.” I said. “He kept me out of the loop until it was too late to provide any sort of aid for what ailed him.”

            “Heh, he always was too stubborn for his own good…!” Simon Callahan snickered sadly. There was another pause, longer this time.  
            “Y’know, Frank and I saw him once.” He told me. “Before he was in the hospital, I mean.”

            “Go on.” I instructed.

            “He quit right after you left. Called us up, told us he was done, and that was it. After a year, we didn’t expect to see him again, but… Frank and I ended up going back to New Providence after a while. Frank wanted some pastries or some shit, so we went into a local bakery, and… well, there he was: standing at the counter, shocked _as shit_ to see us.” Callahan chucked quietly. “It was sort of surreal, really. Seeing him standing behind the counter at a bakery, wearing a flour-covered apron… For some reason I never thought of him as the type of guy to become a baker. It seemed too… _quaint_ for him.” He paused for a moment, and his voice became a bit lower in misery. I had to remember that Elliot was his best friend, too. They had been very close. Though he pretended to be as happy as usual, I could only wonder how devastated he was emotionally.  
            “Perhaps we should’ve known… I mean, he was looking extraordinarily pale, but… He, uh, didn’t say much. Didn’t really seem to want to talk to us all that much. I guess I don’t blame him.”

            Another moment of silence.

            “I miss him.” Callahan’s brother put into simple words what we were all undoubtedly feeling.

            To prevent myself from crying, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes, the same brand that I had seen Elliot smoke. The damn things probably caused his death, but the smell of them reminded me so much of him. I pulled out one of the cigarettes and lit it with Elliot’s old lighter, which I had found in his coat pocket, as the coat had been given to me out of pity.

            “I do too, Frank…” Callahan said. He then apparently noticed the smell, and he probably looked at me. “Cheshire? You… started smoking?”

            I exhaled the smoke. “It… helps me remember him.”

            After a moment, Callahan stepped closer, chuckling quietly. I looked over my shoulder at him to discover that he was wearing a black suit as opposed to his regular beige one. His brother, too, had swapped his teal suit for black.

            “What’s funny…?” I asked Callahan.

            “I’m just thinking…” He said, smiling bittersweetly. “He’d cry if he saw this. The flowers on his grave.” I turned to look at the grave again as Callahan continued. “Elliot was always obsessed with the idea that no one would miss him. Finding out how wrong he is… If he can see this right now, wherever he is… I bet he’s crying.” Quietly, as I processed Callahan’s words, I took a drag of my cigarette.

            And in the end, that’s all I have… Memories. Memories of my failures. Memories of my successes. Memories of a stubborn, cynical French man who took me under his wing and gave me hot chocolate on cold days, even though I never even asked for his kindness.

            I’ll never forget that… not for as long as I live.


	29. Chapter 29

            In early December, I moved to an office on the seventh floor of a building. Ms. Shan came with me, and there we continued our business. I ensured that she kept earning the same pay, though I still made much less than her. Though my connection with the Nationale Police in France was now legally severed, I still had connections through not only the Central Intelligence Agency, but also through Simon Callahan. I could get whatever information I wanted. I used this power in an attempt to tie up loose ends.

            Officer Feliz Florence, I learned, was no longer an officer. He had apparently left the force shortly after The Case of The Crimson Suicide, and his location was unknown. The last sighting of the man had been at a tattoo parlour in Wisconsin, where he had been sighted with a fugitive that Elliot and I had been assigned to catch at one point: Peter Groves. By the time it was reported to the local authorities, however, Florence and Groves were long gone. When I learned about this information, I remembered that the only time I had lain eyes on Groves, he had been talking with someone. I had initially dismissed the idea that it was Florence, though it sounded very much like him. It was now clear to me that I had been incorrect to ignore the obvious, as Florence had probably truly been the other voice I had heard.

            There was, to my surprise, no information on Dallas Calhoon. When I questioned Callahan, he told me that he had not been able to make contact with the pathologist after The Crimson Suicide. Curious, and honestly somewhat concerned for the young man, I tried to get some sort of hint from the CIA, but I was able to get nothing from them. It was as if the man had simply vanished. Had he been able to find the exit? Elliot’s words returned to me.

            “ _They ran off!_ ”

            Florence had escaped, clearly, but… to where had Calhoon run?

            “Oh, shit.” I said in a breath as I leaned back in my chair, exhaling smoke. I was truly puzzled. He must have escaped. The question was just where he had ended up. God knew where Florence wound up, but Elliot and I had ended up on a random street in Elizabeth.

            Too confused to continue on the subject anymore, my mind drifted to thoughts of Russell Southwell. His death had been abrupt and confusing. What had caused it? I had never taken a good look. My free hand found its way to my collar bone, where I reached into the popped collar of my light grey dress shirt and pulled out the key Southwell had given me.

            “ _A good friend gave it to me._ ”

            The key had belonged to Terrence Lyndon, formerly known as Oliver Roarke. However, because of that, I had no idea what it was for. I had not a clue about anything Lyndon had done. Oliver had changed his appearance so much, and had even changed his name. Had he, as a person, changed too? His screams, screaming my name, echoed in my head, and I squeezed my eyes shut. He remembered me at the last moment. Or had he always remembered me?

            From the bottom of one of the drawers in my desk, I pulled out the report for Test 373-B, the test that had killed Terrence Lyndon.

            _… complaining of bodily aches, mainly in the back and joints. Shortly thereafter, subject started to convulse, and became increasingly alarmed. After two minutes, the patient became unresponsive and presumably paralyzed. Subject was swiftly neutralized out of mercy._

“What a horrible way to go,” My inner voice moaned in grief. “At least they ended his suffering…”

            Then, I calmly returned the paper back to the bottom of the drawer I had pulled it from.

            Around six in the evening, I placed my current client documents into my briefcase and left my office. Ms. Shan stood and bowed for me, having been seated behind a desk in the designated waiting room. I tipped my head at her to return the gesture in a more British style, but as I was about to leave, she called me back.

            “Err, Dr. Cheshire—!” She stammered, reaching out for me. I turned and looked at her, at which point she again lowered her head.

            “Yes, Ms. Shan?” I asked flatly.

            Coyly, the young Asian tapped her index fingers together, still staring down at her dark blue heeled shoes.  
            “Um, I was wondering… if perhaps you might…” She struggled to speak. “I wanted to know if you wanted to maybe… get coffee… or something…”

            “At six in the evening?” I questioned.

            Her face flushed, but she did not reply. I figured that she had not meant to mention coffee, and had probably meant to ask me to accompany her for dinner. However, it was easier to decline the offer if I did not correct her, so I merely adjusted my coat.

            “No thank you, Ms. Shan.” I told her. “I prefer hot cocoa. Perhaps we should get some together next week.”

            She looked up at me with her dark eyes filled with the false hope I had given her, and she smiled innocently at me, nodding her head. Her gorgeous black hair swayed with the movement, recently washed.

            Do not get me wrong. Ms. Shan was a sweet girl, and I admired her. However, I was not interested in her romantically, whereas the poor girl was clearly smitten for me. Ending the conversation, I again tipped my head, and then I left.

            When I returned home that night to the mediocre apartment I had moved to, I went straight to my bedroom. As I opened my closet to hang up my coat for the night, I froze. Sticking out from the back of the closet was the sleeve of Elliot’s balmacaan. For a long moment, I just stood there, holding my coat and staring at the sleeve. Reluctantly, I hung up my crème coat and pulled out Elliot’s.

            The threads holding the left-hand side of the midsection of the coat together, connecting the dark brown bottom to the cinnamon brown top, were beginning to unravel. With shaky hands, I pulled the coat close to myself, hugging it to embrace the scent.

            For a moment, I pretended that I was standing in Elliot’s living room. I trick myself into believing that I hear the white noise of the television which, as a quirk of his, he had so admired. I want to believe that I feel his heartbeat, for I am hugging him tightly.

            “I wasn’t ready for you to go,” I choke out. “You bastard, you had no right to leave me like that.”

            I get no response. The white noise has stopped. There is no heartbeat. My arms fall slack, and I hear the coat crumple to the floor at my feet. I simply stand there for what feels like several minutes.

            I am so alone.

            It is the sound of the phone ringing that brings me back to my senses. After the second ring, I stride into the living room. Only Ms. Shan had my home phone number. It was either her or someone else from the government that frankly, I could not have cared less about in that moment. I picked up the phone aggressively.

            “Hello?” I snapped.

            There was a pause on the other end.

            “Who is this?”

            “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

            I nearly dropped the receiver. That voice… Without a doubt, it was the voice of Russell Southwell.

            “Wh—whu—…?” I bumbled like a fool, completely speechless. It made no sense. I watched him die. I felt his pulse. He was dead!

            “Long time no see.” Southwell quipped, “I guess I’ve got some explaining to do.”

            “Southwell…?” I gasped the name out, for I was shocked.

            “You can’t tell anyone I’m alive, alright? But yes, I’m still kicking.”

            “How…? I… You… You died!”

            “I had to find a way to get myself out of a really fucked up situation.” He said. I heard him run his hand over his mouth. It sounded like he was calling from a payphone. I did not care how he had found my number.  
            “Listen to me, Dr. Cheshire.” His tone was now serious. “Terrence Lyndon, the man you saw on the recording at Crimson Cove… He’s _alive._ ”

            I was reeling. What was going on… it was impossible. First, Southwell was apparently alive, and second, Southwell was telling me that Oliver was still alive as well. Was I hallucinating? Was I finally losing my bloody mind?

            “Are you listening?”

            I nodded subconsciously.

            “ _Are you listening?_ ” He asked again, as he could obviously not see my nod.

            “Yes.”

            “Dr. Cheshire, the CIA, they…” He took a moment to regain control of his voice, and then continued in an aggressive whisper. “It was _them._ They _founded_ Crimson Cove! They planned to have Terrence killed for some reason, but they failed. They hadn’t been counting on him somehow being immune to that shit they gave him.”

            “This is insane.” I said.

            “Look, I faked my death. It’s really difficult to explain, and I don’t have time. Hell, they could be listening to this damn call as we speak, but I don’t care. Check your mailbox. You’re apartment 703, right?”

            “Yes, but—” I shook my head. “Southwell, don’t hang up.”

            “I have to go.”

            “Southwell!” I shouted. “Please, please just answer me one thing.”

            “Make it quick.”

            “Where is Lyndon?”

            There was a small pause. “I don’t know.” He told me when he finally answered. “Your mailbox.” A dial tone followed. For several beats, I simply listened to the tone.

            Southwell was alive. _Oliver_ was alive.

            Eagerly, I rushed to the first floor of my apartment complex, taking the stairs in my adrenaline rush. Once downstairs, I dashed to the mailboxes. From my left pant pocket, I pulled out my keys and shakily turned the mailbox key in the lock. There was a recipe card sitting on the bottom of the empty silver box. I pulled it out and looked at the front of it.

            _You can contact me here in case of an emergency. **Please call me sparingly. Last thing we need is unneeded attention.  
           ~ R.S.**_

I pulled my wallet out and managed to fit the recipe card, which also contained a phone number (which I have omitted for the sake of his privacy), into one of the slips. I still had so many questions, but something told me that Southwell would call me first if he was willing to answer me anything.

* * *

 

            Two days later, I was sitting in my office reading a book, when Ms. Shan paged me.

            “Doctor,” She said, “someone’s here to see you.”

            Rolling my eyes, as I had no appointments, I slowly reached over and pushed the button to reply.  
            “I’m busy.” I said.

            There was silence for just a couple of seconds before I heard footsteps approaching my office, alongside Ms. Shan shouting that I was not to be disturbed. I did not move, but my eyes slowly moved from the page to just over the book, where I could see the door. A figure appeared behind the clouded glass, and I wondered who it was. Had Southwell been right about someone having tapped into our call? Was this person here to eliminate me as if I were some sort of obstacle? The door swung open to reveal…

            My eyes widened.  
           _It was Terrence Lyndon._

            The ex-Agent, wearing all black, including a long coat, stepped into my office, staring down at me. My eyes met his, which were lavender, just like Oliver’s, just as I had suspected. Ms. Shan rushed in after him, stepping beside him and bowing in apology.

            “I’m sorry, Doctor, he just barged in, and—”

            “Ms. Shan,” I said, “please leave my office.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “ _Now._ ”

            Realizing I was serious, she timidly scurried out, closing the door behind her. Lyndon and I stared at each other for a long moment, until I slowly placed down my book and began to reach for the phone.

            “Don’t even think about it, Mordecai.” Lyndon said.

            “So you remember me.” I responded, carefully lowering my hand onto the desk, no longer meeting his eye. “Should I be calling you Oliver or Terrence?”

            “I don’t care.” Dismissively, Lyndon pulled one of the two chairs in front of my desk closer to the centre and sat down on it, leaning back.

            Trying hard to remain composed and calm, I clasped my hands in front of me on the desk. “Why are you here?”

            Lyndon sighed and slicked back his hair, but his bangs only bounced back into place at the sides of his face. His hair, which had been platinum blond as Oliver, was now a dark roan red colour.  
            “I had some loose ends to tie up.” He said with chapped, pale lips. His eyes, though indeed lavender, I was beginning to notice their faint blue tint. He looked somewhat dishevelled. After what he had been through, I was not entirely surprised.

            I lowered my gaze somewhat. “What do you mean by that?”

            “I spent all that time as Terrence Lyndon.” He told me. “God, it must have been almost seventy bloody years. I didn’t remember anything. I had been brainwashed.” He shook his hand, with his fingers bent like claws, by his head for effect. “But suddenly, as I was about to die, I remembered everything, starting with only a name and a face.” His eyes met mine again. “Your name, and your face. Then it all came back to me. I loved you. Terrence’s ex-lover had never existed. It had been you all along. I yearned for you even when I didn’t know who you were.”

            I began to tremble. I tightened my grip on my own hands, trying to stabilize myself, but my emotions were beginning to get the better of me.

            “We never said goodbye then.” He continued. “That last day. So, I wanted to finalize our finale.”

            He said nothing more, seemingly waiting for me to speak, but I had a lump in my throat. Finally, I managed to choke out,  
            “What did you do? After I left, I mean.”

            He crossed his legs and arms.  
            “I took over your research.” He told me. “On your Eclipse Potion.”

            I placed my palms down against the desk. “That was reckless of you.”

            “I needed to live.” He said. “I knew I would see you again if I could perfect that formula.”

            “I found your grave.” I accused suddenly. “Oliver Roarke’s _grave._ ”

            “So I faked my death.” He shrugged apathetically. “After how I kissed you in front of nearly the whole population of Catshill, I needed a way to continue your research without being abused for my sexuality.”

            I jumped to my feet and pointed at him.  
            “ _I thought you were dead!!_ ” I yelled. “Did you even _think_ about my feelings at all?! How I might react upon _finding your bloody tombstone?!_ ”

            “Let me finish, and maybe you’ll understand. I did not mean for you to find the grave without seeing me first.” He replied. He was too calm. It was pissing me off.

            “You son of a bitch! Do you really not care?!”

            “ _Mordecai._ ” He demanded my attention, so I pouted and sat back down.  
            “I can’t remember the exact year it happened. It was sometime in the 1950s. I was getting so close to perfecting the Eclipse Potion, when suddenly I got a call. It was from the Central Intelligence Agency. They wanted me to work for them, give them all of the research I had done.” He shook his head. “I refused, of course. Next thing I knew, I was gagged in the back of a van, and then nothing. When I came to, I remembered nothing. I was told that my name was Terrence Lyndon, that I was an agent of theirs from Chicago, and that I had wound up in an accident. They trained me to be a Field Agent. Had I known at the time what the CIA had just done, the length they had gone to just to bring my research to a halt… I would not have accepted. But I didn’t remember a bloody thing, Mordecai. I had no choice but to believe what I was told.”

            I again lowered my head.  
            “Have you spoken to Southwell?” I inquired, changing the subject. “He said he does not know where you are, and I suspect that he is searching for you.”

            “Let him search.” Lyndon said. “He’ll never find me. It’s better that way. Safer for both of us.”

            “Is it?”

            “I heard about Detective Mortensen.” He swiftly evaded the question. “You worked with him.”

            I looked away. “That’s correct. I am alone now.”

            “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m also sorry that I can’t be there for you now.” With that, he stood, and so did I.

            “Please, no.” I pleaded. “I just lost Elliot. I thought you were gone too, but now you’re back, and… I can’t lose you too.”

            “I’m a fugitive now, Mordecai. I have to leave.” He shrugged his shoulders and adjusted his popped collar. “It’s bad enough that I’ve been in here this long. I usually move around a lot.”

            I stepped closer to him, around my desk. “Oliver, I…”

            He looked down at me. “I want to move on, Mordecai. Let me go.”

            I got rather close to him, but he stood his ground.  
            “Just one last kiss…” I suggested. “… For closure’s sake. I… I’ll move on, and you can as well. We never saw each other. We never knew each other.”

            He gazed into my eyes tenderly. That look of love I had so missed was back. It was my Oliver staring at me once more… one last time. His hand made its way to the back of my neck, and he pulled me closer to him, close enough for our noses to touch. His other hand gently stroked my cheek, and his eyebrows furrowed as he put on a fake smile.

            “Find yourself a girlfriend, Mordecai.” He mumbled. “Find a woman, preferably someone better than Ms. Ibbott, and marry her. Create a family with her. _Be happy._ ”

            Before I could reply, Oliver’s lips were locked with mine, and he was hugging me tightly. I wrapped my arms around him, returning his kiss for the first and last time. I felt safe in his arms. I never wanted the kiss to end, but it did momentarily, and Lyndon held me tighter. I buried my face into his shoulder as I heard him sniffle. Soon, he released me, but I did not let go.

            “Why did you come to me?” I cried. “Why are you here?”

            “Because Russell taught me that real men say goodbye.”

            I sobbed a little bit.

            “It was good to meet you, Dr. Cheshire.” He said formally.

            “I could say the same to you, Mr. Lyndon.” I responded, my voice muffled against the nook between his neck and shoulder. He gently pushed me off, and our eyes met one final time.

            “Farewell.” Saying this, Lyndon gave me a small curtsy.

            “Farewell…” I repeated. “And… Happy early Birthday.”

            Terrence Lyndon then left my office, leaving me alone. Ms. Shan stepped in after a moment, but I gestured for her to leave. I needed to be alone.

            I was relieved that I had been able to say goodbye to Oliver. For simply been given that opportunity to receive closure, to be able to move on knowing that he would be fine, I was very thankful. I was never to see him again, but that was something I would just have to accept.

            He will forever have a piece of my heart, just as Elliot does.


	30. Chapter 30

            It was a Friday evening, that of December 24th, 2027, when Ms. Shan again worked up the courage to make a proposition to me. She approached me meekly as I was leaving again, but something about her face showed that she was a bit more confident. I had spent the whole month rather depressed, so I was exhausted, and when she stood in my way of the exit, I only glared down at her with tired green eyes and a lazy frown.

            “Dr. Cheshire,” She began, starting to fiddle with her sleeve subconsciously, “As you may know, it’s Christmas Eve.”

            It was not that the information had not yet settled in my head. Rather, it was that it had settled earlier, and I could not help but recall the first Christmas Eve I shared with Elliot.  
            “So it is.” I flatly replied. My intentions were merely to get home as soon as possible and mourn, possibly cry some more. I had been doing that a lot around that time. Perhaps I should not have spent so many years bottling my emotions.

            Only slightly put off by my piss-poor attitude, Ms. Shan continued.  
            “Well, I… Uh, I was wondering if you’d like to…” She looked up at me nervously. “If you’d like to go get dinner with me.” She waved her wallet. “My treat.”

            I stared at her wallet for a moment, then resumed staring at her. I was almost surprised that I felt nothing but apathy at her request. Thinking back on it, I had been pretty out of it in general since Lyndon left. I almost felt desensitized to my clients. I was very flat and straight to the point, not really caring about the people I spoke to.

            I realized I had been silent too long when Ms. Shan lowered her wallet and frowned. She looked down, seeming defeated.

            Bloody hell, it was Christmas. I had to at least _fake_ something for her. So, tilting my head, I forced a smile and chimed,  
            “Sure, Ms. Shan. I won’t bother to ask where you have planned, as I’m not picky, and I am sure you know where we are going.”

            Her head shot upward to meet my gaze, her eyes almost twinkling. “Really? You’ll come?”

            “Of course.” I wanted to die. Social interaction was, somehow, what I least wanted, but I figured I would feel worse if I let her down on Christmas.

* * *

 

            Ms. Shan and I walked down the street as it snowed on us lightly, her leading me to a nearby restaurant. Though the snowfall was light, the winds were bitterly cold. I cared not, however. Ms. Shan was bundled with a thick coat and a white wool scarf, but the only thing different for me was that I had opted to wear my old purple zip-up turtleneck, the one I had always worn around Elliot, that day.

            “Aren’t you chilly?” She probed.

            “I am fine.” I responded. The cold didn’t bother me.

            After another five minutes or so of walking, we arrived at a restaurant. I did not care to look at its name, but I wish I had. We entered and were seated, where Ms. Shan took off her coat and scarf. I at first kept my coat on over my sweater, as it was not particularly bulky, but Ms. Shan kept staring at me like I was insane, so I eventually, with heavy reluctance, took the coat off and laid it across the back of my seat. Luckily, the restaurant we had gone to was not overly formal, or I might’ve been embarrassed by my choice to wear that zip-up sweater. I wanted to lay my head down on the table and rest my weary eyes, but did not, as that seemed impolite.

            For a long moment, neither Ms. Shan nor I spoke. She did not seem to know how to start a conversation, and I was not very interested in even holding one if she did.

            “Are you going to look at the menu?” Ms. Shan soon asked, as I had only been staring at the fork on my side of the table.

            “I will have whatever you are having.” I replied, not breaking eye contact with the fork, as though it had the answers to the universe and I did not want to miss a single second of it. “Believe me, I am not picky.”

            A woman arrived at the table shortly after and Ms. Shan gave her order before the waitress turned to me. Feeling her eyes boring into my soul, I slowly turned my head to her.

            “I’ll have what she’s having.” I said in monotone. When the waitress left, I resumed staring at the silverware, this time at the spoon for no particular reason.

            “Are you alright?” Ms. Shan questioned. “You seem… out of it.”

            She had a point. I was hardly present. I felt as though I was absently watching my body act on its own accord, as if I were watching from above two strangers sitting at a table having a very awkward time.

            “I’ve not had a very good time these past three months.” I admit to her. “As a result, I am a little bit fatigued.”

            Remembering Elliot’s death in October and the sudden arrival and departure of Terrence Lyndon earlier that month, Ms. Shan timidly averted her eyes from my face.  
            “I’m sorry. I really hope things improve for you.”

            I shrugged. “I suppose they have to. I do not have much left to lose.”

            Ms. Shan frowned, but said nothing more.

            The waitress brought us our orders and left us be. I picked up my fork and merely poked at the food, not able to find the energy to put any of it into my mouth.

            “You’re not enjoying yourself, are you?” Ms. Shan, again. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you like this, but…”

            I wanted to speak, but stayed silent.

            “I know you don’t like me the way I like you, Dr. Cheshire.” She told me honestly. “And that’s fine. I’m not going to mope about it. But I do want to make you at least a little bit happier. You’ve seemed so depressed recently.” So she _did_ notice. “So… lonely. I didn’t want you to be lonely on Christmas Eve.”

            I felt my eyes water a little, but I did not cry. I sighed quietly through my nose, and then I slowly began to speak.  
            “Thank you for caring about me, Ms. Shan. Forgive me for being zoned out. Let’s eat.”

* * *

 

            I walked Ms. Shan home after refusing to let her walk home alone, as she had wanted to walk _me_ home instead. We stopped outside of her house, a modest one-storey building, and she turned to look up at me.

            “Thank you for spending the evening with me and for walking me home, Doctor.” She said with a smile. “I know how tough things have been for you lately, and it means a lot to me that you would accompany me.” Her English had really improved since I first met her years prior.

            “I could not very well have a pretty girl such as you be alone on Christmas Eve.” I replied.

            “Will you be alright getting home on your own?” Ms. Shan asked. “I could call you a taxi.”

            “I will be fine.” I said. “I feel like taking a walk might help ease my mind, anyway.”

            She smiled again, gentler this time, and then she stood up on her tippy toes. With her hands on my shoulders, the short girl pulled herself up and lightly pecked my cheek. Then she stepped down.  
            “Merry Christmas, Dr. Cheshire. Have a good night.”

            “Merry Christmas.” I responded. As she opened her front door, I turned and began to walk away.

            The winds were still bitterly cold, but I did not mind. I walked aimlessly down the street, my nose to my jaw buried in the collar of my sweater. Things could only improve, but for some reason, that knowledge did not comfort me. Elliot was dead. Oliver left. It was stupid, but I felt dead inside, as though I had lost every possible glimmer of hope for my future. I wanted to die. How was I supposed to continue being a psychiatrist if I was a psychiatrist that very well may need a psychiatrist of his own? I could prescribe myself anti-depressants, but knowing that I had to take pills to make myself less depressed would only make me _more_ depressed.

            I soon arrived at the apartment building a lived in, and took the elevator up to my floor. When I got into my apartment, I locked the door and shuffled my feet into my bedroom again. I allowed my coat to slide to the floor, and then I threw myself backwards onto my bed, with my arms spread to my sides. The bed was wide enough for neither of my wrists to dangle over the sides. I stared at the white ceiling.

            The grey walls and the white borders to those walls… Apart from myself, the entire apartment really was monochrome, even its furniture. Monochrome and monotonous… Just as my life was looking to become. Something needed to change. However, I felt afraid of change. So, I stood up. I picked up my coat, and pulled out a cigarette, popping it into my mouth. I lit it with Elliot’s old lighter.

            Nothing was going to change.

* * *

 

            By March 10th, 2033, nothing had changed. I was still working as a psychiatrist in the same bloody office building with Ms. Shan as my secretary. However, on that day, something notable did happen, so I will mention it.

            I was working in my office, as usual, when Ms. Shan knocked on the door and entered. I was not expecting this, so I looked up at her with slight confusion.

            “There’s a new patient here to see you, Doctor.” She told me, seeming almost equally uncertain. “His name is Felix Day.”

            As I had been reading a book before she entered, I lift it back up and continued to read. “I don’t take walk-ins anymore, remember?” I told her half-heartedly through my teeth, as I was biting down on a cigarette that I had in my mouth since my hands were full. “If he really needs to see me, tell him to make an appointment.”

            Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ms. Shan fidget nervously. “But, um, Dr. Cheshire… His guardian’s with him, and seems adamant that we see him _now_.”

            “Tough.” I responded. “If he has a problem with that, he’ll just have to deal with it.”

            Almost as I was saying that, however, the door to the right of Ms. Shan’s practically flew open. Standing behind it was a tall, muscular man. His outfit, consisting most notably of black cargo pants and a black leather jacket with “A.M.F.”, the initials for a US Armed Forces task force that I could not (even presently, as I write this,) remember the exact full name of (something like “Anti-Monster Force”, with monster being metaphorical for terrorist?), written on it in yellow, caught my eye. He was at least 6’6”, and looked very muscular. His build, along with his military jacket, let me know that he was likely part of the Armed Forces, if not at least an ex-soldier for them, as last I heard, the A.M.F. team was almost entirely destroyed by Ruler Eternal prior to his demise at one of their hands in May of 2023. Then I thought about the picture I had seen alongside the newspaper headline that day. This man had a slick black eye patch over his left eye, and brown hair in a messy faux-hawk. He was the one that defeated Ruler Eternal!

            I promptly put down my book and stood up for Private David Henseler, whose name I recalled suddenly, as the newspaper article I had read about him in 2023 stuck with me.

            “Are you going to see us or not?” He demanded as Ms. Shan fumbled for words, wanting to scold him for barging in uninvited.

            I tilted my head a little bit and could just barely see that someone, presumably Felix Day, was standing behind Private Henseler. I took the cigarette from my mouth and extinguished it in the ashtray on my desk.  
            “Yes,” I answered. “I’ll see him now.”

            Ms. Shan glanced at me, and when I returned the glance, she meekly left my office.

            Private Henseler walked further into my office, with Day trailing nervously behind him. The smaller boy, standing around 5’7” with caramel-coloured hair, was still mostly hidden behind Henseler, so I could not make much out of him other than height and hair colour yet.  
            “David, please…” I heard him begin to plead in a shaky voice. “I really don’t need to see a psychiatrist! I’m completely sane!”

            “Shut up!” Private Henseler barked back at him. “You need to see a shrink, and that’s final!”

            Realizing that Henseler’s hostility was not helping anything, I gently said, “Day? Take a seat, please.” When Day stuck his head out from behind the soldier and looked at me with his cerulean eyes, I continued, “This will be over before you know it.”

            On wobbly legs, Day reluctantly stepped forward. The first thing about his appearance that I noticed was that he was a long black coat almost similar to Ruler Eternal’s, but the entire left sleeve of it was gone, exposing the parakeet green sleeve of the zip-up turtleneck (it was similar to mine, actually) that he wore. I thought nothing of the similarity of the coat, owing it up to a mere coincidence. The second thing I noticed was the long cowlick sticking up from the back of his head. It was almost cartoonish with the way it swayed about, up and forward, nearly dangling above his face. Day sat down on the chair in front of my desk, but Henseler only turned his back to us, staring at the door Ms. Shan had left through as if waiting for her to dare to enter again.

            “You too, sir.” I said to him.

            As though he was offended by my polite words, the soldier whipped around to face me. “The name’s _Henseler._ ” He told me aggressively.

            I already knew that, but I decided to pretend that I did not to make the situation a bit less awkward for myself. “Henseler, then.” I gestured to the sofa to his left. “Please have a seat.”

            With a huff, Henseler obeyed, sitting down on the couch and crossing his arms. He was not pleased, and almost seemed to be trying to make some sort of point by bringing Day to me.

            Despite the tension in the air, I turned my full attention to the boy in front of me. He could not have been much older than twelve, and he was clearly terrified by me.  
            “So, Day…” I was almost at a loss for words, so I started with the basics. “How are you feeling?”

            Day turned his eyes to the floor, probably staring at his feet. “N—not great, to be entirely honest…” He was being careful with his words, I realized, but likely honest.

            “Why is that, exactly?”

            “Um…” Day squirmed. “W—well…”

            “Maybe because he never sleeps.” Henseler interrupted nonchalantly. After neither Day nor myself said anything, he resumed talking, becoming increasingly more aggressive with each word. “Maybe because he’s always nervous. Because he never talks to anyone. Because everyone fears him since his fucking father is—”

            “St—stop!” Day suddenly shouted. “Stop…! I… I’ll talk…”

            Though I appreciated the assistance in coaxing a response from Day, I did not approve of Henseler’s method. Still, I ignored him.  
            “Is it true that you don’t sleep, Day?” I questioned, feeling a little bit concerned for some reason. My sudden feelings were a surprise to me, as I had not cared for a patient very much at all in years. However, I just had a bad feeling in general when it came to Day. Something was not right.

            “Eh…” Day began to stammer nervously. “W—well, yes, but…” He trailed off.

            “Would you mind telling me why?”

            After a beat, Day lifted his head a bit and made minimal eye contact with me.  
            “I have these… nightmares…” He told me quietly. Henseler scoffed, but I continued to zone him out.

            “Go on.” I assured the young man before me.

            Day sat upright and started to explain. “Well, in these nightmares… There’s… There’s this king. King Martel. I’m his son, Lyre. And, well…” Again, Day averted his eyes from mine. “King Martel isn’t very… nice, if you catch my drift…”

            “Delusional…” I heard Henseler mumble.

            Shooting him a scolding look, I shouted, “Mr. Henseler, do be quiet! I would hate to have to ask you to leave.”

            Henseler rolled his eyes at me. “Whatever.” He grumbled.

            I turned back to Day. “Tell me more about your nightmares, Day.” I requested.

            It was with great reluctance that the boy resumed. “I can’t sleep, because they… They continue, and… I don’t want it to go on anymore…! Lyre, he…” Shame filled his voice and he lowered his head, concluding, “He looks just like my father…”

            Ignoring the obvious, I asked, “Who is your father?”

            “ _Ha!_ ” Henseler jolted up from the force of his arrogant laugh. “You can’t tell just by looking at his face? What, have you been living under a rock?!”

            Taking the hint, I took a good look at Day’s face. His cheekbones and his chin… Suddenly, it clicked. The coat _was_ Ruler Eternal’s. _Felix Day was his son!_

            “Hold on, you’re… You’re not…” Unconsciously, I pushed my chair back a little bit from surprise. “… related to Dustin Patefield, are—”

            “ _NO!_ ” Day screamed. Lowering his quivering voice a bit, he changed his response to, “I’m not… I’m not like that bastard, I swear!”

            Henseler stood up and began taking steps closer to my desk. “That’s bullshit and you know it!” He said to one, or perhaps both, of us. “Doc, he talks to himself. He sees things that aren’t there. He smashes every damned mirror we get!”

            Day brought his hands up to his head, mussing up his already tangled hair a bit. The tip of his strange cowlick laid against my desk as he did this.  
            “P—please, stop saying that…” He begged. “That’s normal, isn’t it? I’m not crazy…!”

            I’ll admit that I felt bad for the poor kid. He was driving himself insane.  
            “I’m afraid it’s not entirely ‘normal’, Day…” I informed him carefully. “But that’s alright. If you let me, I can try to help you.”

            Throwing his hands down and his head back in exasperation, he desperately declared, “I don’t need help! I’m fine! I…” He lowered his head once more. “J—just… Just tell me I’m not crazy…!”

            I sighed with what felt like a heavy weight on my chest. “You’re—”

            “—completely batshit.” Henseler cut me off, finishing the sentence his own way. What little I could see of Day’s face froze in a horrified expression.

            “ _Mr. Henseler!_ ” I yelled at him as I stood up, sick of his cruel behaviour.

            Gesturing with one hand to Day, who was starting to tremble and hyperventilate, Henseler shouted back, “I’m only telling the truth! He’s just as crazy as his worthless old man!”

            “NO, NO _NO!_ ” Day screamed. “STOP TALKING! GET ME OUT OF HERE!” He leapt to his feet. “ _I’M NOT INSANE!_ ” With that, he dashed for the door, ripping it open and bolting out.

            “Day, come back!!” I hollered after him, but it was futile.

            “Ah, dammit.” Henseler said casually, as if the situation was no big deal to him. “I guess I’d better go after his crazy ass.” He turned away from me and started stomping for the door to leave.

            “ _Don’t you_ —!!” I started, but he was going to get away if I continued. Almost without realizing it, I stepped up onto my desk and used it to leap forward, lunging at Henseler. Even though I was 5’10” and weighed a little bit over 55 kilos, the full force of me slamming into him did little but make him stumble. As I clung and clawed at him like a cat, all it took was for him to lift his shoulder, slamming it into my chin, to make me crumple to the floor. Not a care in the world for me, he left, and after he hurried out, it did not take long for Ms. Shan to rush in and see me sitting cross-legged on the floor.

            “Shit.” I mumbled, wiping my nose, since it felt like it was bleeding. Thankfully, it was not.

            “Wh—what happened, Doctor?” Ms. Shan asked, concerned. “They both just ran out…”

            Before answering, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out another cigarette. I lit it and took a drag.  
            “It turns out that Mr. Henseler is not the most supportive person…” I told her. “He scared my client away.”

            “Ah, I see…” She extended her hand to help me up. “Are you alright? Do you need anything, Doctor?”

            I waved my hand at her, dismissing her offer pull me to my feet. I was rather comfortable on the floor. “Not at the moment, no.”

            Nodding her head, Ms. Shan turned to leave. I remembered that her sister had been married to Patefield suddenly, and felt the need to stop her.

            “Wait. Ms. Shan?”

            “Yes?” She took a step closer to me.

            “The client… Did he look… familiar to you in some way?”

            Ms. Shan looked away. “Y—… Um… N—no. No, not… Not really. Why?”

            I shook my head. “Just curious. I need to be alone for a bit. Go about your business, Ms. Shan.”

            With another nod, Ms. Shan left my office. I remained seated and took another drag of my cigarette as I thought.  
            “Dustin Patefield’s son…” My inner voice pondered. “I suppose since we dropped that case, he’s none of my concern, but… I can’t help but feel almost weary about what the future holds.” That poor boy. One could only hope that he did not become as mad as his father.

* * *

 

            As I assumed, still, nothing changed… That is, nothing changed until January of 2035. Eight years of the same things; working as a psychiatrist in that shitty office, hating my life despite Ms. Shan’s kindness. However, on a day in January (I am sad to say that I had stopped keeping track of the exact date, though I presumed it was around my birthday) that year, I received an odd flyer in the mail.

            _Are you good at solving problems?_ It read.  
            _Know how to make valuable deductions?  
            Then **we want you!**_

            The flyer then gave a location, saying that a “written test” would be performed there on Saturday the 13th. It was signed by the “ _Black Canary Freelance Detective Agency_ ”. The simplicity of the flyer intrigued me. I had no interest in helping them or taking their exam, but I felt like something was amiss.  
            Then I turned the paper over.

            _Dr. Cheshire,_  
                _Can’t wait to see you. Real big fan of yours. We’ve heard of your past: your work with French detective, Elliot Mortensen, and how the two of you solved many cases together. We would love to have you as part of our team. Please consider, it would mean a lot to us._  
_Sincerely,_  
_Len, of the Black Canaries_

I stared at the letter written on the back of the flyer for a few beats. This Len guy had written a personalized note for me, and since it was not even in an envelope, something told me that he had likely delivered it himself. Despite the friendly tone of the letter, I somehow got the feeling that it was more of a threat than anything. He wanted to see me there, and God only knew what he planned to do if I refused to appear before him.

            “You’re overreacting,” My inner voice retaliated, “He’s just the leader of a group of hopeless freelances. If they tried anything, you could easily turn the law back on them.”

            Still, something was not clicking right. I pocketed the flyer as I began to return toward the elevator, as I had the day off. As I walked, I asked the man at the front desk what the date was, and to my surprise, he told me it was the 12th. I had been under the impression that it was only the 4th.

            Once on my floor, I returned to my apartment. I had but twenty-four hours to consider my course of action. Did I go to visit Mr. Len and his “canaries”, or did I stay home and sleep in for another day? Though the latter was very tempting, I was in a slightly better mood than normal at that moment, so I considered that I should at least give the freelancers a chance to impress me, if they even could.

            I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and found myself perplexed. My skin was beginning to develop wrinkles. I tilted my head. Was I… ageing? I found myself poking at my face. My skin still felt taught and normal, but I had fine lines on certain parts of my face that suggested I was developing wrinkles all of the sudden.

            “It must be the cigarettes,” I mumbled to myself. “They’re making my skin age.” It was a silly thought, but the only one that made sense to me. Honestly, I had begun to feel rather sick as well. Was I ill? I shook off my concern. Of course I was not ill; I could not _be_ ill! The Eclipse Potion had made me ageless and essentially immortal… However, of the former, I was no longer entirely sure. Was it possible that its effects could wear off over time?

            “Foolish,” I murmured, though I was indeed beginning to frighten myself.

* * *

 

            I had been hoping to sleep off the faint feeling of vertigo I had the prior night, but when I awoke on the 13th, it was all but gone. Still, against my better judgment, I got dressed and made my way to the location on the flyer. The area itself was not too shady, and there were at least ten other people there to take the Black Canaries’ written test. We were standing around in the lobby of the building, some of us making small talk (not me, however), when we heard a loud whistle.

            Standing on a platform now, at the far end of the lobby was a pale man with ruby red hair and brown eyes. He had two round silver piercings in his right-hand eyebrow, two more in his right ear along with a grey earlobe gauge. Around his neck he wore a black choker. Over what could have been a black t-shirt, he wore a black blazer. On his hands were black fingerless biker gloves, which went with his black jeans (accented with silver chains dandling beside each leg, attached to belt loops) and heavy black boots. Overall he was… an interesting sight.

            Holding a microphone, which he tapped a little bit, he said, “Testing, testing, one two three.” When he spoke, I could see that he had a silver stud piercing in his tongue as well. Perhaps it was his general appearance, but something told me I did not like this punk-styled man.  
            “Howdy!” He shouted rather rambunctiously. “Thanks for showing up today, potential new Canaries!” I rolled my eyes as he continued. “My name’s Chance Patill, and I’ll be your ‘host’, or supervisor for those of you more formal, for the day.” Was he referring to me?  
            “Now, how about we get right down to brass taxes?” I wanted to speak up and correct him, as he had said “taxes” instead of “tacks”, but he opened his left arm outward and continued before I could so much as stand up from the wall.  
            “If you’d all be so kind as to follow me downstairs, we can start your written test right now.” I had a bad feeling. “Who’s ready?”

            The crowd responded by clapping, which was not really a reply when you think about it.

            “Let’s go!”

            In a single file line, with myself second to last, we all began to follow Patill. Feeling like I was making a mistake, I turned my head to see who was behind me. My eyes widened when I saw a young man, no older than seventeen, standing behind me. He stood about 5’6”, and he had a red hoodie on, with the hood up over his head. I could still see his black hair, which stuck out from his hood, but his face… What little of it I could see had painted onto it what looked like… _mime makeup?_

            I quickly turned my eyes from the boy and stared ahead. I was not about to push past him, even if he was smaller and younger than myself. Something about him gave me a bad vibe.

            Patill led us into what looked like a study hall. There were rows of desks with small booklets, pens, pencils, sharpeners and erasers.

            “Alright, take a seat, and you can start whenever! Try to finish within two hours.” Patill shouted. As others took their seats, I noticed that the weird kid behind me took his place beside Patill, and I narrowed my eyes.

            Patill caught sight of me, and a large grin made its way across his face. “Dr. Cheshire.” He said, as if about to scold me. He stepped closer, but I stood my ground. He was only an inch shorter than me.  
            “You don’t have to take the exam.” He said quietly, then quickly added at normal volume, “Please take off your coat.”

            I realized he was trying to make it seem like I did not have an unfair advantage over those taking the test, but, holding eye contact, I only slowly slid off my coat, draped it over my arm, and then turned away from him and made my way to one of the desks. I felt his eyes watch me go, but I cared not.

            “Len’s gonna like you.” I could have sworn I heard him mutter at me, though I could not tell if it was a sarcastic remark or not.


	31. Chapter 31

            I finished the exam within the hour. I got some looks when I casually leaned back in my chair, even from Patill, but I did not care. My only response was to briefly raise my brows at Patill, who then turned to the young man in the currant red hoodie. Patill appeared to whisper something to him, to which he responded with some odd hand movements that I recognized as a form of sign language. Alas, I did not understand the non-verbal language, so I simply placed my head down into my arms on the desk I sat at. I attempted to rest away the vertigo, which had begun to evolve into anxious nausea, to no avail.

            It took another half an hour for me to become impatient. When I raised my head, I realized that Patill and his friend kept glancing at me. Obviously, they were merely putting on a show. I was the only one from this group of people that they wanted. However, that made me question what exactly their intentions were. Why pretend that they were considering anyone else? Was it to lure me into a false sense of security?

            Finally fed up, I stood from my seat, slid on my coat, and with my hands buried in the pockets of my black dress pants, I walked forward.  
            “You must be Len?” I asked the black haired boy with the mime makeup. He did not respond, though Patill did snicker.

            “No, he’s not.” Patill told me.

            I turned my tired eyes onto the red haired punk. “Let’s get this over with, shall we? I would like to see Len.”

            “In due time.” Patill.

            “Look,” I glanced over my shoulder at the others in the room. Every single one of them was still writing, and some looked a tad distressed. Then, I looked back at Patill, and made sure to speak slightly louder than normal, so everyone could hear me. “I know you’ve given everyone else an impossible test. You wanted to lead me on, and make me believe that I had competition. Frankly, even if I did, I would not care. Did you expect that, Mr. Patill?”

            From behind me, near the back of the study hall, someone began to clap, loudly and slowly. I sluggishly turned around when I heard them stand up and begin approaching us.

            It was a person with scarlet hair down to their waist that was clapping and stepping forward. They wore an outfit identical to Patill’s, which is part of what threw me for a loop as to identifying their gender. As they stepped closer, however, I realized that the structure of their face was too feminine for them to be male. The woman then smirked at me, a vaguely malicious gesture.  
            “Bravo, Dr. Cheshire,” She applauded, “Bravo. You really haven’t lost your touch.”

            I glared at her for a long moment, but did not say anything or even move. Everyone in the room was watching us now.

            The lady extended her arms out to her side as if she was about to go in for a hug. “You called for me?” She asked. I did not understand, so I did not respond. Patill tapped on my shoulder, and I glanced at him. He meekly pointed at the woman.

            “ _She’s_ Len.” He whispered with an amused expression.

            My eyes shot back to the woman. _She_ was Len? That made no sense to me, as I had thought Len was a male name.

            “Len” winked at me suggestively. “Thanks for coming, Doc.” She announced as she began to pace around me. “Real glad you showed.”

            “What do you want?” I kept my eyes locked on her, feeling almost threatened.

            “Oct, get everyone out of here for me, would ya?” Len asked openly. I could hear the young man with the mime makeup move away from me, and soon enough, everyone had stood up and was making their way upstairs. Meanwhile, Len continued to pace around me. When the room was finally empty but for Patill, “Oct”, herself, and I, she resumed speaking.  
            “What do _you_ think I want?” She inquired as she disappeared behind Patill. I looked to my right, waiting to see her reappear, which she did momentarily.

            “Honestly, I am not sure.” I replied.

            “Oh, come on!” She whined, “You must have at least an _idea!_ ”

            “I’ve seen nothing to suggest anything other than your desire to recruit me.”

            Len smirked at me, her roan red eyes glowing malevolently. “Bingo. Was that so hard?”

            I narrowed my own eyes at her. “But then why play make-believe? If you only want me, you did not need to drag anyone else into this.”

            The girl shook her head as she shrugged. “Are you jealous? You’re right: it was to make you think that you had competition. And we _did_ give you an easier test. In fact,” She walked across the room, to my desk, and picked up the test. I watched as she tore it in half with a little bit of effort, and in an unrelated train of thought, finally noticed the rings she wore. On her left hand, she had a gold ring around her thumb, and two silver rings, one around her middle finger and one around her pinkie. On the other hand she had a silver ring on her thumb, and two gold rings, with one around her index finger and the other around her third.  
            “The test means nothing.” She told me. “I just wanted a reason to meet you face to face.”

            “Why?” I demanded.

            She looked down for a moment, though she did not seem nervous. She merely seemed to be thinking about her next course of action. I watched her drop the torn test, and then she crossed her arms behind her back and marched toward me. She stopped just in front of me, looking up at me since she was two inches shorter than I was. Then, she extended her right hand in the space between us. I twitched, because I had thought she was going to strike me or something, but it was instead a formal request for a handshake.  
            “Name’s Len.” She said casually. Reluctantly, I shook her hand. I was only a little bit surprised when her grip tightened around my limb and her eyes narrowed at me in hatred.  
            “Lenore _Locklear_.” Her voice was nearly a snarl.

            I froze, staring down at her with wide eyes as things began to click in my head.

            “That’s right. Remember Collin? _I’m his daughter. Nice to fucking meet you._ ” I tried to wrest my hand free from hers, but she only held tighter.  
            “You killed my father’s best friend, sister, and brother-in-law. Not to mention his nephew or niece, but the kid wasn’t alive yet, so it’s _fine_ to you, isn’t it?” She growled. “So, you killed my aunt, my uncle, _and_ my potential cousin. Then you tried to pin it on my father. What do you have to say for yourself, you ass?”

            “I proved that he wasn’t guilty,” I carefully responded.

            “ _And somehow forgot to mention that YOU were!_ ” She shouted, throwing my hand down. Then, she shoved her index finger against my chest, jabbing me with it accusingly.  
            “But, you know, I’m willing to let bygones be bygones so long as you do me a _huge_ fuckin’ favour, capiche?”

            I only frowned at her.

            “If you help me and my friends out, I won’t reveal what I know about you to the public.” She offered this situation to me with a smug smirk, as though she believed she was getting away with something dastardly.

            “My friends _and I_.” I corrected.

            “What?”

            “You said ‘me and my friends’. That’s wrong. It’s ‘my friends _and I_ ’.”

            Ms. Locklear rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be such a fuckin’ Grammar Nazi.” She warned.

            I scoffed, beginning to take an offensive stance. I puffed my chest out a bit as I had watched Elliot do when he wanted to be intimidating, and the change in body language earned a sharp stare from the woman in front of me.  
            “Besides,” I told her with confidence, “The case is closed. What evidence would you bring to the court, Ms. Locklear?”

            “I know you left something at the scene.” She replied, though she sounded uncertain. “You must’ve.”

            “It’s been almost over twenty bloody years! All of that so-called ‘evidence’ would be deemed useless, and besides, is it really worth dealing with a grudge that’s lasted two decades?”

            Suddenly, Ms. Locklear smacked me across the face. I stumbled back and placed the fingertips of my left hand to my cheekbone, but did not much else.  
            “You asshole.” She moaned. “You really have no idea what you’ve done to my father, do you? You’re inhuman!”

            “I know quite well what I did to your father.” I answered solemnly.

            “Then why don’t you think I have a right to be pissy over it?” She urged before I could say anything more.

            I did not answer.

            “Look.” She then sighed, squeezing the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “I’ll be willing to fight over this later, but right now, I’m really craving some fuckin’ BK.” I did not know what she meant for a long moment, until I realized that she was referring to the fast food restaurant, _Burger King._  
           “Will you help us or not?” The question was surprisingly sincere, and she held her hands on her hips, tapping the toe of her left shoe against the floor impatiently.

            “Why do you want _my_ help?” I questioned.

            “Simple. You and Elliot Mortensen apparently made a great team. Now that the two of you stopped working together, you must miss ‘playing make-believe’, huh?” As she mockingly asked this, she glanced at her nails, with her fingers bent over her palm.

            “Stopped working together?” I hissed, offended by her casual nature.

            “Yeah. In 2021. Didn’t you two split?” She shrugged, “Honestly, I was surprised you two didn’t go back to work together. Worked out for me, though.”

            “Elliot is _dead_.” I sneered at her. “ _That_ is why I am not working with him anymore.”

            Ms. Locklear shot me a look for a brief moment that revealed her guilt at bringing the topic up at all. It did not appear that she had been aware of Elliot’s passing. However, she did not apologize, as I suppose it would have been too much of a hit on her dignity to have to say sorry to the likes of me.  
            “Wow. Wasn’t aware of that…” She let out an awkward whistle and shoved her hands into her pockets. “Shame.”

            “You can find someone else to help you.” I told her, glancing over my shoulder at her two partners to further cement my seriousness. “I am not going to work with you.” As I started to walk toward the exit, suddenly Ms. Locklear spoke.

            “W—well, hold on!” She called. I huffed and turned around, and she rushed to me, presenting me with a little white card.  
            “If you change your mind.”

            I took the card from her and crumpled it in my hand, staring at her the whole time. Her eyes searched mine for something, but whether she found what she was looking for or not, I am not sure, as I whipped away from her and promptly left. After I stepped outside of the building and lift my head to feel the cold air against my cheek, which was still throbbing from Ms. Locklear’s slap, I opened my palm and unfolded the card. On it was a telephone number and her group’s name.

            I scoffed at the card, but after a moment of thought, I slid it into my coat pocket. Then, I began to make my way home.

* * *

 

            Sitting in my apartment that night, I was watching television. More specifically, I was watching the news. Nothing particularly interesting caught my eye, just a few murders and whatnot. For some reason, I was upset. I could not get Ms. Locklear out of my head. Her voice taunted me, saying hurtful things that she had not actually said to me.

            “You’re worthless,” Her voice said, “You’re a monster. You hurt everyone you work with.”

            Her snarling, imagined voice gave me an idea. Though I did feel bad for Ms. Locklear’s father, something about Ms. Locklear just made me feel intense hatred. Was it her appearance? No, I had not looked that closely at her. What about her attitude?

            I nodded to myself. Definitely her smug personality.

            Something in me wanted her to suffer. I wanted to show her my pain.

            “ _You hurt everyone you work with._ ”

            Before I knew it, I had pulled out the card Ms. Locklear gave me, and was dialling the number on it on the telephone next to the sofa. After a few rings, there was finally an answer.

            “Y’ello?” The voice of Chance Patill made me roll my eyes, but I put on my most mockingly polite voice in spite of this.

            “Hello, Mr. Patill.” I chirped. “It’s Dr. Cheshire.”

            I heard nothing in response and felt my false smile beginning to droop from impatience. Was he ignoring me? I began to tap my fingers against the table the phone was on.  
            “Mr. Pati—”

            “Dr. Cheshire, huh? I’m surprised you actually had the balls to call me.” Ms. Locklear’s voice grated my ears.

            “Yes.” I responded. “I wanted to apologize for my rudeness earlier.” Lies.

            “Apology accepted,” She remarked, “for now.”

            I wanted to spew verbal venom at her, but held my tongue and instead continued my attempt to wrap her around my finger.  
            “Do you still want me to help you?”

            There was a brief pause before she said, “Unfortunately, yes. I wish we didn’t need your help, but you’re the only one we can turn to.”

            “What’s your case?”

            Ms. Locklear began to laugh. “Well, it’s… It’s unusual.”

            “I would assume so, if you need _my_ help.”

            “Look, y’know what…” She mumbled, “I’m not going to tell you over the phone. I’ll sound fuckin’ stupid, and you’ll just think we’re making it up.”

            “Oh, I promise I won’t.” I chimed with fake enthusiasm, as I wanted to avoid seeing her for as long as I could. However, then I remembered that I would be more likely to bring harm to her if I was within her general vicinity, but it was too late.

            I heard the woman on the other end of the line sigh. “Um,” She searched desperately for a way to start her explanation. “Well. Err. Have you ever seen _The Terminator_?”

            “No.” I answered.

            “Bad example anyway.” I could almost hear the gears in her head turning. “Anyway, we’ve been getting a lot of clients that are… fairly certain their family members are being replaced by, get this, _androids_.”

            “Capgras delusion?” I inquired.

            “That’s what _I_ thought.” She told me. “But here’s the catch; the family members in question, for each of them, _were dead._ ”

            I narrowed my eyes, suddenly confused. “What do you mean?”

            “The clients, they lost a family member, or family mem _bers_ , but then they ran into them! Their family member, walking around, right as fuckin’ rain! Some of them remember the clients, most don’t.”

            I sat upright. “Ms. Locklear, that does not make any sense, and I feel they may be pulling your leg.”

            “One of the clients went missing shortly after telling us her newly-resurrected husband was acting strangely.”

            “Be more specific.”

            “He wouldn’t eat or drink anything, and he’d stopped speaking to her. He would just ‘stare creepily’, she said.”

            I rubbed my chin. Was this true? I had no idea. However, it was successfully piquing my interest, which was more than I could say about anything else in the past seven or so years, so I decided to suspend my disbelief and “roll with it”.  
            “Does anybody know what happened to her?” I questioned.

            “That’s just it.” She told me. “We know her name, we know her address, but we haven’t heard any news about her, and we can’t talk to her neighbours.”

            “Why not?” I asked, frustrated.

            “She lives in _fucking Bloomfield Hills!_ That gated community! We can’t get in!”

            I thought for a moment. “She must be quite wealthy then.”

            “I guess…”

            “Then why would she come to the Black Canaries?”

            My vaguely insulting question stunned Ms. Locklear for a moment, but it did not take long for her to retaliate.  
            “Do you know how crazy her story sounds? ‘Oh, hello there, Mr. Detective. Yeah, my husband died, but now he’s back and I lowkey think he wants to gut me like a fish. No, don’t call security!’ They’d throw her out!”

            “Have you tried breaking in?”

            “What, into Bloomfield Hills? I’m not crazy. We went there and no one was on watch or anything, so we couldn’t even pass along a message.”

            I let out a huff and leaned back. “Alright, so what exactly is it that you need me for?”

            “We still have other clients, Dr. Cheshire. First and foremost, we need your help to find out what happened to Mrs. Gentry and her undead android husbo, but we also need to figure out what’s really going on and if our other clients are in any immediate danger.”

            “I believe Mrs. Gentry may be dead.” I said, not caring if I worried her. “However, that is just my initial deduction.”

            “That’s what I think, too…” Ms. Locklear admit. “I just hope that’s not the case.”

            The conversation dwindled down to me meeting her the following Monday, which was three days from then; January 15th. I hung up on her shortly after, barely even gracing her with a farewell, and then I laid down on my bed for a while.

            My mind was running circles around what Ms. Locklear had told me. The worst thing was, I had no idea whether it was I who had wrapped her around my finger, or vice versa. Had she been making it up? Impossible, I reasoned; she had sounded too sincere. Either she was telling the truth, or she was just an incredibly skilled liar. Still, the entire case was absurd. Android clones of the recently deceased returning to their family members? Ms. Locklear was correct: it sounded bloody insane! Yet, like a tethered bloodhound, I could not help myself but follow the scent I had been given.

            I had to find out the truth, one way or another.


	32. Chapter 32

            On the 15th, I met Ms. Locklear, Patill, and their friend with the mime makeup whose actual name I still did not know at the building in which I had first encountered them. Patill was holding a can of soda pop with a straw sticking out of it, which he sucked on occasionally. When Ms. Locklear’s eyes caught sight of me, she narrowed them, though she smirked in an almost friendly manner.

            “Hello, Dr. Cheshire.” She greeted me.

            “Ms. Locklear.” I replied, tipping my head at her. Noticing her proximity to the parked blue car we stood by, I questioned, “I presume this car is yours?”

            “It is.” She responded, patting the car with pride. “Gift from Daddy when I was sixteen. Itchin’ for a ride?”

            “Not particularly.” I told her flatly.

            Patill stepped forward and pat my shoulder, leaning against me to a degree. “Too bad.” He told me.

            “Why’s that.”

            Ms. Locklear opened the passenger side door, holding it open. It took me a moment to realize she was doing this for me to step in.  
            “We’re going out for a twenty minute drive.” She cooed.

            I stared at the interior of the car for a moment before turning my eyes to meet Ms. Locklear’s.  
            “To Bloomfield Hills?” I inquired.

            “You guessed it.”

            Promptly, I stepped into the car. Ms. Locklear slammed the door after me, pleased. She hurried around the car and got into the driver’s seat as Patill sat behind her, and their other teammate sat behind me.

            “Everybody buckled in?” Ms. Locklear asked as she started the engine.

            “Yes.” I responded.

            “Pussy.” Patill quipped. I did not respond, not wishing to egg him on.

            Ms. Locklear began to drive, which I continued ignoring the strangeness of; I was still not used to the idea of women drivers, and though I felt a tad guilty about it, I was nervous about being in a vehicle under the command of a female, never mind one that I hated. Everyone was surprisingly quiet, presumably from the curiosity of what we would discover at Bloomfield Hills. I stared out of the window as I thought. Was Mrs. Gentry alright? Something told me she was not. I had a bad feeling, not unlike the one I had felt before The Case of The Crimson Suicide. Was it a sign of what was to come?

            “Hey, Len.” Patill said suddenly, breaking the silence.

            “What is it, Chance?” She asked.

            “What did Bigfoot say to the priest?”

            Ms. Locklear paused for a moment. “What did he—” Before she could finish her vaguely rhetorical question, Patill let out a primal noise, rolling his tongue as he did so. Ms. Locklear began to laugh, shaking her head.  
            “You fuckin’ retard.” She snickered, affectionately disrespecting him. I remained silent, as did the hooded boy behind me. Curious, I looked up at the rearview mirror. I was not able to catch a glimpse of him, as the mirror was tilted toward Ms. Locklear.

            “You two never introduced me to your friend.” I pointed out.

            “Oh. That’s just Octavius.” Ms. Locklear responded casually.

            “Mister…?” I trailed off, waiting for a surname.

            “Octavius Tremble.”

            I choked on my own saliva for a moment.  
            “Mr. _Tremble?_ ” I stretched my syllables to further express my disbelief at the strange name.

            “Yes, as in ‘tremble with fear’.” There was a beat of silence before she added, “That’s not his real name, by the way.”

            “Then what, may I ask, _is?_ ”

            “It’s a secret.” Patill revealed, sticking his nose into our conversation with delight. “He’s our tech guy… Sort of.”

            “Sort of?”

            “Sort of.” That was all I was going to get from them, it seemed, so I dropped the subject.

* * *

 

            It took about eighteen minutes to make it to the gate that separated us from Bloomfield Hills. We four stepped out of the car, all standing beside it as we stared at the tall bars.

            “When did you arrive here first?” I asked.

            “On the 11th.” Ms. Locklear answered. “There was no guard.”

            “There still isn’t.” Patill pointed out. “Look. There’s a little cubicle for him over there, but no one’s there.”

            “Something’s not right.” I began approaching the gate regardless, with my hands shoved deep into my coat pockets. Ms. Locklear followed me, albeit slowly.

            “What do you hope to do, exactly?” asked the woman. “They can’t exactly let you in.”

            “Then we breach their defences.” I responded casually.

            “Wait, what?”

            It was without responding to her rhetorical question that I approached the gates. I tugged at them, but they would not separate, as they were locked. The bars were too close together for me to be able to squeeze between them, even as slender as I was, at least not unless I were to disrobe.

            “That ain’t gonna work, buddy.” Patill chuckled.

            I thought about it. He was probably right, but what if I were to lose my mind? I seemed so much stronger when I fought Patefield like that, and when I… Again, images of my crimes against Autumnwolf resurfaced in my head. Losing control would probably give me the strength to yank the gates open, but alas, I did not know how to trigger it. Frustrated, I wrapped my hands around the metal bars.

            Tremble stepped over beside me, looking up. I followed his eyes and noticed that the gate was, without a doubt, taller than any one of us, but if we were to climb onto each other’s shoulders, then at least three of us could make it over.

            I turned to Patill and Ms. Locklear. “Patill,” I commanded, “stand over here.”

            Patill only raised a brow. “Who made you leader?”

            I stepped closer to him, trying to intimidate him. “I did.”

            “That’s my job.” Ms. Locklear complained.

            I whipped my head around and glared daggers at the woman. “You’re also the one who came to me for help.”

            She rolled her eyes at me, placing a hand firmly on her hip. “Oh, so now it’s your way or the highway, is it? God, what a typical _man_ way of thinking.”

            I was confused by her remark, but offended nonetheless.  
            “Look,” I barked, “You wanted me here. If you don’t want to do things my way, then don’t, but I do not see why you felt the need to bring me here if you aren’t going to listen to me!”

            Ms. Locklear turned her eyes, admittedly a beautiful shade of brown, to meet mine with intense spite and contempt written in them. Then, she shook her head and looked away from me.  
            “Fine.” She spat bitterly. “Let’s do it your fuckin’ way, Doctor.”

            I could not help but smirk, noticing that I had damaged her ego a tad. I turned back to the gate. “Patill, stand there.”

            With a quiet shrug of reluctant obedience, Patill stood in front of the gate, gazing through it. I approached him and clamped my hands down onto his shoulders, making him flinch, and I started to press down.  
            “Crouch.”

            Patill sighed and did as I asked. Suddenly, I was weary about stepping onto his shoulders. Would he be able to handle my weight? Certainly I could not weigh very much more than Ms. Locklear, as despite her shortness compared to me, she was not exactly the skinniest woman I had yet encountered (that is not to say that she was not _relatively_ slender; she would murder me if she read this without my clarifying that). However, it was a matter of his strength.  
            Uncertain, I turned back to Ms. Locklear and just stared at her for a moment.

            “What?” She hissed.

            “Step onto Patill’s shoulders.” I did not bother to be polite about my demand to her, regardless of the fact that being so rude to a woman was ungentlemanly.

            Finally, she glanced up at the gate, then back down at Patill. “You… You want me to _vault_ that?”

            “Yes.” I answered honestly, pleased that she finally caught on.

            For the first time, I saw Ms. Locklear blanch a bit as she turned her gaze back to the top of the gate. “I don’t know about that…” She mumbled, now nervous.

            “What, are you afraid of heights?” I questioned, not bothering to mask my disdain.

            “Well…” She looked off into the distance, avoiding the question.

            “Good God, woman.” I huffed and recklessly stepped onto Patill’s shoulders, holding onto one of the bars for support. “Lift me. I’ll go.”

            Patill wobbled a bit as he stood, trying to stay steady so I would not slip off and hurt one or both of us.  
            “You’re not as heavy as I expected.”

            “I’ll take that as a compliment.” I replied.

            “It wasn’t meant to be.”

            Ignoring Patill, I placed my hands between the spikes on the top of the gate. It was not until that very moment that I realized I had no idea how to vault this. I could not very well boost myself off of Patill…  
           “Oh, this is going to be awkward.” I murmured as I tried to find a way to gently hoist myself up. I just barely managed to do so, ending up in some strange, almost cat-like crouch on top of the gate.

            “Okay, genius,” Ms. Locklear shouted at me, “just how the fuck do you plan to get down without hurting yourself?!”

            I looked down, but quickly looked back up, for looking down made me tilt forward, and if I did too much of that, I would fall from my uncomfortable perch.  
            “I will admit, Ms. Locklear, that I had not necessarily thought of that.” With incredible caution, I slowly extended one of my legs outward.

            “Oh, Christ,” I heard Ms. Locklear gasp in a mixture of anger and distress.

            I gulped, but then calmed myself. Apathetically, I pushed myself over the edge, extending my other leg as I fell. When I landed, I landed roughly on my feet, nearly stumbling forward, but catching my balance. I looked back at the gate. That drop really had seemed so much more dangerous from up there, but from ground-level, it really did not look like anything to gawk at. Ms. Locklear huffed, so I approached the bars.  
            “Which house is Mrs. Gentry’s?” I inquired.

            “You’ll know it when you see it.” Patill told me. “It’s blue.”

            “It’s _green._ ” Ms. Locklear corrected.

            “Aquamarine?” Myself.

            “No, it’s green.” Locklear.

            “Yeah, I guess so.” Patill.

            I narrowed my eyes. “Wait, how the hell do you know what colour her house is? I thought you only knew the address.”

            “Google Maps.” They both answered, almost in unison.

            I shrugged and turned away from them. As I walked deeper into Bloomfield Hills, I could not help but notice two things: how beautiful it was, and how bloody empty it seemed. I could not hear anything but nature. Even getting closer to the houses did nothing; either the walls were very thick, or there was no activity.

            The gated community was modest for what it was, though there was a really nice lake and a lot of trees. Lawns looked… almost unkempt, however. It was as though no one was tending to anything anymore.  
            Eventually, I found what I assumed to be Mrs. Gentry’s home. It was, in fact, a dark shade of aquamarine, which, looking back, was an odd colour considering all of the other buildings in the community were various shades of brown. As I was stepping up onto the porch, I finally heard something. It sounded like a voice from within the house: some sort of singing. In response to the sign of life, I knocked firmly on the door, three times. I gave it about twenty seconds before I knocked again, in the same manner. Fifteen more seconds, and then I called, “Mrs. Gentry? Mrs. Gentry, are you in?” There was no response, so I reluctantly lift my hand to the doorknob.

            The door was unlocked.

            The realization that her home was not protected in any way only added to the bad feeling that had been rising in my chest, and I had to think for a long moment about whether or not I wanted to invite myself into her home uninvited. What was I about to find? After taking a deep breath, I finally opened the door and let myself in.

            Immediately I recognized the song that was playing in the living room. It was _Mack the Knife_ , Bobby Darin’s version. In a wave of agonizing memory, I saw Elliot in his car, tapping his toes slightly and tapping his finger against the steering wheel. He told me this was his favourite song. Snapping back to the present, I lowered my head and gulped back the emotions welling up. I had a mission, dammit. It was merely an unfortunate coincidence that this song was playing… on loop, it seemed, as immediately after ending, the song restarted. Trying to ignore the music, I stepped further into the house, into the very room the music was coming from, only to be smacked like a train by the smell of death. The song blared over the speakers, and in fact, I was so distracted by it that I did not notice where I was walking until I stepped on something that felt out of place. Sort of like… flesh.

            I froze in place, not wanting to look down. Slowly, however, my eyes defied me, trailing downward until my head had to follow.

            On the ground, in a pool of her own blood, laid a woman. Mrs. Gentry, no doubt. Her eyes were wide open, glazed and filled with indescribable terror. Her neck had been sliced open roughly, but that did not appear to be all that had been done to her, and certainly not the first thing, since there was no blood on the walls. Her ginger hair was tangled and matted. I had stepped on her petite, pale hand, outstretched across the floor as if she had reached for something in her final moments.

            I took two giant steps back, staring at the woman’s corpse in shock. My breath had picked up pace. She looked to have been there for at least five days, if not more, judging by the smell. My “blood” did not truly run cold, however, until I heard a floorboard creak down the hall.

            _I was not alone._

            I stayed still, but I know that my presence was already known by whoever was there. It was her killer, wasn’t it? Her supposed husband, back from the grave… It was him, wasn’t it? For the first time in a while, I did not know what to do. The song continued to blare. Could I use that to my advantage? Not likely, I realized, since I had heard him, meaning that he could probably hear me just fine. I took a shaky breath, standing my ground. I planned to make a break for it, and charge them, but before I could do so, I heard slamming footsteps approaching me, and before I knew it, a figure was lunging around the corner of the doorway and lunging for me. _He_ had charged _me!_

            Stunned, I threw myself to the side, narrowly dodging the male that had attempted to pounce me. He turned and took a good look at me, drying blood all over his pale face. Slowly, he started to chuckle lowly. When I stumbled back somewhat, he stepped closer.

            “Dr. Cheshire?” The man laughed in a gritty voice. “How convenient. My wife wanted to see you.”

            “I take it you’re Mr. Gentry.” I cautiously said. Gentry merely grinned, so I continued. “Where is everyone? Why did this happen to your wife?”

            “There’s no need for reason anymore.” Mr. Gentry told me. “The creation of the new world is upon you.” I only blinked at him, confused and frankly somewhat alarmed by his words. Without so much as another word, Mr. Gentry rushed me again, this time slamming me body check-style into the kitchen, where I fell back onto the floor. He sat over me as his hands—so very, very cold—clamped around my throat with surprising force. Immediately I clawed at his fingers and gagged, but I could not breathe. His grip was almost mechanically tight, like a vice. As I choked, I searched his eyes, which were boring into my own. I saw no madness in them, but no sanity. It was almost as if he was merely inhuman.

            “ _Anyway, we’ve been getting a lot of clients that are… fairly certain their family members are being replaced by, get this,_ androids.”

            It could not be true, but how else could I explain this. His grip was unwavering. There was no remorse, no grief, not even any bloody pride in those eyes! There was nothing, nothing but something that vaguely resembled an imitation of life. My vision was starting to become patchy, and I could see black spots in my vision. The song began to fade out, and I could feel my consciousness wavering. I was only half aware of something smashing Mr. Gentry across the head, knocking him off of me. Gasping for air, I clawed at my throat, and hardly paid attention to Mr. Gentry leaping to his feet until I heard a feminine shriek. I looked up to find Mr. Gentry chasing Ms. Locklear out of the living room and up to the second floor. She had come to check on me?

            I jumped up suddenly and ran after them, stumbling somewhat since I had not had much time to regain my strength.

            “Bitch!!” I heard Mr. Gentry shout in an almost robotic voice, though it was not devoid of rage.

            “Locklear!” I hollered, dashing up the stairs. I watched with my own two eyes as Mr. Gentry _quite literally kicked a door off of its hinges_ , prompting Ms. Locklear, inside the room that now lacked a door, to belt out a scream. Something inside me lit up like a blaze of fury, and I roared,  
            “ _HEY!!_ ” Mr. Gentry turned to face me, so I returned the previous gesture, running into him and shoving him down. Blind to anything else, I started to repeatedly punch him in the face. My knuckles started to hurt, but I kept at it. Unwavering in his effort, as if unfazed by the multiple strikes to the head, he caught my wrist. As he did so, however, Ms. Locklear ran forward and jumped onto his head with all of her weight going to the soles of her feet. She then fell forward, but I was not quick enough to catch her. Mr. Gentry finally let go. He seemed to be unconscious… or, at least, faking it.

            Ms. Locklear and I sat where we were for a moment, just catching our breath. Was it over…?

            “Are you alright?” I asked Ms. Locklear, though I did not look at her.

            “I guess.” She answered. There was a long pause. “You?”

            I panted. “I do not know. I am pretty sure that I am, though.” Another long pause.

            “What do we do with him?”

            Vacantly, I checked for a pulse on Mr. Gentry. There was none.  
            “Ms. Locklear, he… He does not have a pulse.”

            “Well, I mean, she did say he was an android.” Ms. Locklear was able to easily accept this.

            I looked at the red-haired woman in disbelief. “How do we know we did not kill him?”

            “Look at him, Doctor.” She said. “We didn’t do shit to him! You pounded his face into oatmeal, but he looks a-okay.”

            I averted my eyes in shame. I had not meant to become so aggressive. There was just something about the threat of him hurting Ms. Locklear that affected me. Then, it hit me. I had made a vow that I would never let anyone die. I needed to stop hurting people. If Ms. Locklear wound up injured or worse, it would be on me. I would break my vow. I frowned.

            “Why are you here?” I asked her quietly.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” She snapped back, seeming offended. “Besides, you were taking too long.”

            “I thought you were afraid of heights.”

            “You mean you didn’t hear?”

            I looked at her again. “Hear what?”

            She shrugged very casually, and told me, “We got the gate open.”

            “How?”

            “We pushed the release button in the guard station.”

* * *

 

            I watched Patill and Ms. Locklear tie Mr. Gentry up, and helped them carry him out to the trunk of Ms. Locklear’s car, in which we locked him, just in case. There was every possibility in the world that we were carrying a corpse, but the Canaries seemed adamant that we were dealing with an android, so we had to take the extra precaution. As we began driving back to Southfield, Patill pulled out his cellphone and gave the police an anonymous tip to check out Bloomfield Hills.

            During the drive, I found myself glancing at Ms. Locklear from time to time. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she had been worried about me. This was strange to me, as I had been certain up until that moment that she absolutely despised me. Perhaps she had only been worried since I was important to the case… But then I thought.  
            What exactly made me so important there? I did not do anything that they could not. Why did they need me? I shook the questions from my mind. If they needed me, they needed me, and I would not argue it. Still, something suggested to me that my involvement was due to some sort of ulterior motive on Ms. Locklear’s part.

            “Where exactly are we going?” I asked, first to speak up after at least five minutes.

            “My place,” announced Patill, “It’s our headquarters.”

            It was not long before we were at Patill’s house, a meek little one story home with a garage. We drove into the garage and parked there, and I watched as Patill and Locklear pulled Mr. Gentry out of the trunk, laying him down on the ground. Tremble, who had wandered off, returned with—

            “Is that a bloody chainsaw?” I questioned.

            Patill took from Tremble both the chainsaw and a mask with a square eyehole, for welding.  
            “You bet your ass it is.” He responded, filled with pride. “Might want to get back.”

            “What are you going to do?” Then, I changed my question to: “What if he’s human?”

            “He can survive without an arm either way,” was Patill’s response.

            I stood in the hallway near the door into the garage, across from Ms. Locklear, as we heard Patill start the chainsaw.  
            “Is he always like this?” I asked her.

            “Like what? Reckless? Thoughtless? Impatient? Yeah, that pretty much sums up Chance. He likes to _take chances._ ”

            My expression of dumbfounded bewilderment at her pun was accented by the sound of Patill’s chainsaw cutting something. It was not very long, however before the chainsaw ceased entirely.

            After a beat, we heard, “Uh, guys? You may want to see this…”

            I put my face into the palm of my hand for a moment before raising my head. “He was human, wasn’t he?” I hollered the question, but got no response. Locklear and I shared a look before re-entering the garage. Patill held in his hands a severed arm, but there was no blood.

            “What’s going on?” Ms. Locklear asked.

            “Look…” Patill turned the arm over so we could see the interior. However, instead of severed muscles, bone, and whatnot… Mr. Locklear and I stared in silent horror.

            _The inside was comprised of wires!_

            “I fuckin’ knew it.” Ms. Locklear affirmed under her breath. “ _Androids_ , man.”


	33. Chapter 33

            The following day, the Black Canaries and I sat around a table in Patill’s house, which I had been told was their unofficial “headquarters”. We were all dead silent, just glancing at each other while waiting for someone to speak. The air was tense with dozens of unspoken questions, and I felt that a good handful of them were to be directed at me.

            The police investigated Bloomfield Hills and found a bloodbath. Not a soul had survived. Since it seemed very likely that Mr. Gentry had killed them all, the question that plagued all of our minds was: would the Canaries’ other clients face the same fate? I worried we were too late. Bloomfield Hills was a gated community that had been very private in its affairs for years, but the other clients were all closer to Southfield, in urban, heavily populated areas. The publicity of whatever actions the android(s?) could perform gave me a small sense that we still had time to spare, but there was honestly no real way of telling.

            I looked up at Patill, but couldn’t figure out what I wanted to ask. He was already looking at Ms. Locklear, however, who was looking at me, and Tremble simply stared at the floor.

            “What do we do?” I decided to ask a preliminary question to break the ice. “About this, I mean.”

            “We have to stop the other androids before they snap.” Patill decided with determination.

            “How?” I asked almost aggressively, as I knew none of us had a plan. Everyone was silent for a moment, but then a tune started to play. I looked around in confusion, but Patill simply glanced at Ms. Locklear. The woman watched me search for the jingle for a moment before laughing and pulling out her cellphone. I felt silly.

            With a press of her fingertip against the screen, Ms. Locklear answered the call, bringing the phone to her ear.  
            “Hello, Len of the Black Canaries speaking.” She answered quite formally… almost _too_ formally. Then, however, she sat upright. “Oh, Mrs. Tiller. Has something happened?”

            “Put her on speaker phone!” Patill insisted.

            Ms. Locklear nodded. “Hold on for a sec, Mrs. Tiller. I’m gonna put you on speaker phone so my partners can hear you too, alright?” There was a short pause before Ms. Locklear put the phone on the table, tapping the screen a few times. “Can you hear me?”

            “Yes,” answered a soft, yet old, voice.

            “What’s up?” asked Locklear.

            “Well, it’s… It’s my husband, George.”

            “Go on.”

            “I mean, I told you before that he was missing, and that he suddenly returned and was acting weird…” Mrs. Tiller sounded a bit scatterbrained, but I supposed that was to be expected, what with her missing husband’s sudden return. “B-but now I’m becoming a bit scared by him…”

            “What’s he doing, Mrs. Tiller?” Ms. Locklear inquired seriously.

            “He keeps going out and spending money, and he returns with these huge boxes… I honestly don’t even know how he carries them; he’s got a bad back! He puts them in the basement and won’t let me go down there to see what he’s got, and… You have to understand, my George, he… He’s never liked others. He’s an introvert. He doesn’t like parties, but… He’s setting up the house and sending out invitations!”

            “He’s holding a party?” Patill asked with a raised brow.

            “Yes, a formal one at that! I’m just so very alarmed… I do not believe this is my George anymore. He may he planning to hurt someone…!”

            “Where is he right now, Mrs. Tiller?” I spoke up.

            Not recognizing my voice, the old woman on the other end was silent for a moment, but she appeared to realize that I was with them and resumed speaking.  
            “He’s downstairs… I think…” She murmured.

            Ms. Locklear’s brown eyes met mine as she smirked. I had a feeling I knew what she was planning, and it was reckless.  
            “Mrs. Tiller, when is the party?”

            “Tonight, at six o’clock…” The old woman replied.

            “Alright, listen to me. We’re going to be there, alright? Don’t tell your husband; we’re going to blend in. We’ll find out if he’s your husband and what he’s hiding. Is that okay with you?” Locklear’s plan was exactly as I thought it was. I narrowed my eyes at her, but she no longer noticed, now staring at the screen of the phone for no particular reason.

            “Yes, please,” Mrs. Tiller breathed, “Just knowing would soothe my nerves so much…”

            “We’ll be at your house by 6:30, then.” After a few more lines of reassuring goodbyes, Ms. Locklear ended the call and put her phone back into her pocket.

            “Finally, a little bit of adventure,” Patill said with a grin.

            I stared at them in disbelief. “You two cannot be serious.” I griped, “We’re going undercover?”

            Ms. Locklear frowned at me. “Do you have any better ideas, Doc?”

            “This is pointless and dangerous.” I warned them. “We won’t solve anything this way.”

            “Cheshire, this old woman’s life and possibly the lives of everyone at that party are at stake here.” The woman told me, her voice low and vaguely emotional. “Sure, going there will add our names to the list of possible victims, but if we don’t go, then they’re _guaranteed_ to die. _We can change that._ ”

            I stared at Ms. Locklear, who glared hard at me. She had a point. I would not be able to live with myself if I did not at least try to save _someone_ from that party. However…  
            “What if it’s a trap?” I asked.

            “What if it isn’t?” Ms. Locklear retorted without missing a beat.

            Needless to say, it did not take much for me to agree to Ms. Locklear’s plan.

* * *

 

            It was five that evening when I finally pulled my only suit out of the closet. I had never worn it before, as I did not really find a need to until that moment. The suit itself was a light shade of brown that could be described as a mix of tawny and caramel brown. I looked at it for a long moment with a deep sigh before tossing it down onto the bed. From the closet I also pulled a dark blue, nearly black, dress shirt. I tossed it down as well before finally bringing my full attention to the flutter in my stomach. I felt nauseous and queasy. I had been trying to dismiss it as my nerves, but something was not right. It was not simply nervousness, that much the cold sweat I was experiencing told me. I took off the glove on my left hand and brought the back of that same hand to my forehead. It felt a bit warm, but not really warm enough to concern me, though I was usually rather cold. However, it was not until the dizziness struck that I decided to sit down on the edge of the bed.

            Something was wrong. I rubbed my temple with my fingertips, almost trying to will away whatever was ailing me. I was in a little bit of pain, but I could not tell where from. Was it my liver? I made the stubborn decision, typical of myself, to dismiss it and stand back up. I felt horrible, but it was not like I had a choice to bail on the Black Canaries for what they would likely dismiss as merely a cold.

            I slowly undressed, trying not to exert myself too much. I was equally slow in dressing myself in the suit. I was almost finished dressing when I came to the realization that I lacked gloves. I could wear the striped ones I always wore, but they were not formal. I glanced at my bare hands. They were not necessarily unfit to be seen, however, I was still nervous about going without gloves. My anxiety did not help me feel any better physically, so I did my best to push it from my mind.

            There was a knock at the door the instant I stepped into the living room after putting on my shoes, so I went to the door and opened it, expecting to see a sharply dressed Patill. Instead, I froze when I saw Ms. Locklear standing before me. Her red hair was in a somewhat-neat bun, and she wore stylish earrings. She stood there in a slim-fitting red dress, staring off down the hall as if she was embarrassed to meet my eye. She brought up her hand, bangles clattering around her wrist, and pushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear.

            “Hey.” She said. “You ready to go?”

            I was speechless for a moment. She actually looked quite pretty, and I found myself attracted to her for a beat before I reminded myself who I was looking at. Strangely, it did not help much. I shook my head.  
            “Sure.” I responded coolly. I took another look at her, and against my better judgment, I spoke again. “You look…”

            “Hideous, I know.” Ms. Locklear scoffed. “It’s a hand-me-down dress. My mother wore it once. I hate dresses, but I suppose it wouldn’t make sense for me to waltz in wearing a fuckin’ suit, would it?”

            I wanted to counter her statement and tell her that I was going to say she looked stunning, but I held my tongue, suddenly apprehensive about complimenting her.

            Not commenting on my appearance, she started to walk down the hall toward the elevator. “Let’s go, then,” She called, “We’re going to be late.”

            I rushed back in to grab my keys, locking my door before following her. She and I shared the elevator as it took us down to the main floor.

            “How far is Mrs. T—… Err…” I was embarrassed to admit that I had forgotten the name of Ms. Locklear’s client. She glanced at me, watching me stumble on names, trying to find the right one and allowing me to flounder in doing so for what felt like a century.

            “Mrs. Tiller.” Satisfied, Ms. Locklear finally told me the right name.

            “Ah,” I paused for a beat before resuming my question, since I was confused by my memory suddenly failing. I did not often forget names so quickly.  
            “How far is Mrs. Tiller’s home?” I inquired, trying to catch my social footing, as I had already made a mess of my composure.

            “About a forty/fifty minute long drive.” Ms. Locklear answered before groaning. I watched her pull out a bottle of Tylenol from her clutch purse, palming two of the white pills before popping them into her mouth, downing them dry.

            “Are you alright?” I asked. “You seem uncomfortable.”

            She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I hope this isn’t too forward,” She started, “but you’re a fuckin’ doctor. Also a man, though, so there goes my argument.” She huffed. “I just started shark week, and I’m bitchy.”

            I had heard the term “shark week” before, but needed to clarify exactly what it meant. “You mean you’re menstruating?” I asked casually.

            Ms. Locklear struck my arm with her purse. “Don’t say it so brusquely!” She complained. “You couldn’t possibly understand. You’re a man.”

            She had a bit of a point. While I was a doctor, I still did not know very much about the menstrual cycle, but I did know that it supposedly hurt.  
            “Well, are you in pain?” I questioned.

            “No shit, Sherlock.” Ms. Locklear snapped, but then added, “I mean, not as much as I’ll hurt tomorrow, but yeah.”

            The elevator stopped on the main floor and we walked outside together. Suddenly, I felt differently about Ms. Locklear. Perhaps she had only seemed so insufferable because she was about to begin her period, and she was rather attractive now that I had a chance to see her in formal attire. Still, I scolded myself for thinking that way. She was Collin Locklear’s daughter. She despised me, for certain, even if I did have romantic feelings for her, which I did not. However, maybe I could find a way to make peace with her… I doubted it, though.

            Ms. Locklear walked around to the driver seat’s door, and by the time I realized that I should have opened it for her, she had already stepped into the car. In the back seats were Patill and Tremble. Patill wore a black suit with an admittedly corny bowtie, but Tremble was still wearing his red hoodie and mime makeup.

            “I do not mean to be rude,” I said as I stared at the already out-of-place young man, “but he won’t be entering with us, will he?”

            “No.” Ms. Locklear answered bluntly as she started the engine. I sat back, relieved that they were thinking somewhat rationally for once.

* * *

 

            The drive to Mrs. Tiller’s home was uneventful and therefore unremarkable, as no one spoke and nothing particularly interesting occurred. We all merely sat in silence until Ms. Locklear pulled the car to a stop in front of the large home, which was a little bit outside of Southfield and looked almost mansion-like. All of the windows were curtained, but light spilled through them nevertheless, basking the darkness around our vehicle in a soft yellow glow.

            “What is the plan?” I asked openly.

            “Blend in,” Ms. Locklear answered, “Once we fit into the crowd of guests, one of us slips into the basement and the others confront Mr. Tiller.”

            “And Mr. Tremble?” I questioned.

            “He stays in the car. No reason for him to get out.”

            “If there is?”

            “I’ll call him, then.”

            As satisfied as I could be by her responses, I nodded, then Ms. Locklear, Mr. Patill, and myself all stepped out of the car. I glanced down at myself for a moment and corrected my suit, and as I did, I thought about how ill I still felt. I did not think it would be noticeable enough for me to not blend in with the crowd, but I was feeling a bit worse than earlier.

            “Doc, you comin’?” Patill called. I looked up to notice that they were already halfway to the front door. I had not noticed them walking without me.

            “Yes, sorry,” I responded in a somewhat gentle voice as I joined them.

            Patill was the one to knock on the door. Ms. Locklear glanced at me as he did, and I glanced back. She held her gaze, and I was confused until I looked downwards; her arm was held outwards somewhat. I was puzzled, as I knew what she was silently asking, but did not know why she was choosing me as her partner over Patill, with whom she was obviously more comfortable with.

            “It’s probably because they look alike,” My inner voice reasoned. “They both have red hair and brown eyes. It would be easy to mistake them as siblings.”

            The woman’s gaze was beginning to turn a tad hostile, so I reluctantly extended my own arm. She wrapped her petite limb around it, pulling me closer as she did. Then, she put on the façade of a content smile. I felt like I should mimic the gesture, but I did not, as I found myself thinking of my toxic relationship with Camille.

            The door opened, and there stood a slender yet tall old man, about the height of Ruler Eternal. He was an intimidating man, though, as he was skinny, but indeed strong-looking. The faint sound of classical music playing in the background caught my ear, as I had not heard that genre of music playing at any event in years. He truly was going for a formal, antique theme, wasn’t he?

            The man, presumably Mr. Tiller, scanned us with his hazel eyes, but seemed to get caught on me. I could have sworn he narrowed his eyes with what I could only describe as malicious pleasure at the sight of me, but his expression changed from that to a welcoming smirk almost before I could blink.  
            “Ah, the more the merrier,” He said in a cheery tone as he stepped away from the door, bowing and extending his hand into the lobby, “Welcome to my boring abode.”

            His specific choice of words caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. I unwittingly thought back to the first time I visited Elliot’s home in New Providence. He had said those exact same words to me. It surely had to be a coincidence, but I still felt a twinge of emotion.

            Noticing that none of us had stepped forward, Mr. Tiller straightened himself and shook his head.  
            “Forgive me,” he murmured in an amused manner, “I was told it may be funny to say that.” He stared at me as he said that, and I felt a chill run down my spine. Something was not right here. “Come in, come in.”

            Ms. Locklear practically had to drag me along into the residence. A frail old woman stood by the staircase with her hands intertwined in front of her torso. She looked vaguely concerned, leading me to the conclusion that she had to be Mrs. Tiller.

            “Jill, my dear, welcome our new guests into the party, would you?” Mr. Tiller asked her. Mrs. Tiller slowly nodded, taking small steps and gesturing us to follow her.  
            “Err, just a moment,” Mr. Tiller spoke up again as he started to approach her, however. “Where are my manners? I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. My name is George, George Tiller. This lovely lady is my wife, Jill.”

            “Nice to meet you,” Ms. Locklear said. “I’m Lucy. This is my brother, Charlie,” She gestured first at Patill, and then at me, “and my fiancé, Jack.”

            I wanted to glance at her for giving me the name “Jack”, as I was curious what had led her to dub me as such, but I resisted the urge to do so for the sake of our disguise. I was also strangely less disturbed by the thought of pretending to be her fiancé than I thought I might be.

            Mr. Tiller beamed at us, but it felt lifeless. “Jack.” He said through his teeth, allowing the fake name to linger in the air for a bit. Ms. Locklear nodded. I felt her grip on my arm tighten ever so slightly. The tall man nodded as well, closing his lips but still smiling. “I knew a man named Jack once.” He said, sounding somewhat solemn. Then he picked his feigned pleasure back up. “Fancy meeting you three. Enjoy the party.”

            Mrs. Tiller resumed walking to the door to our left, so the three of us followed her, leaving Mr. Tiller in the lobby. The woman opened the door, revealing a room full of fancily-dressed couples, most too busy conversing with one another to notice our entrance. Mrs. Tiller turned and grasped Ms. Locklear’s shoulders, smiling gently down at her.  
            “You look lovely,” She said.

            “Are you alright?” Ms. Locklear asked quietly.

            “I’m fine, dear. Just… take whatever time you need.” With that, Mrs. Tiller left us, disappearing into the crowd, presumably to check on the other guests.

            “Well, this should be fun.” Patill said, though he did not necessarily sound happy. “Let’s get this over with.” Immediately contradicting himself, he walked ahead of us.

            Ms. Locklear scoffed and rolled her eyes.  
           “Oh, come on…” She grumbled.

            I glanced over my shoulder. Mr. Tiller was still in the lobby, staring at us from his position in front of the staircase. Noticing this, I pulled Ms. Locklear along with me, following after Patill, but she pulled against me, pulling me in the opposite direction. I allowed her to take me to a wall not far from the doors, and she huffed.

            “What’s the matter?” I asked in what was almost a scolding tone.

            “He’s gonna blow our fuckin’ cover!” Ms. Locklear hissed at me in a hushed voice.

            “I do not know what you are talking about,” I replied calmly. “It only makes sense for him to wander on his own if he is supposed to be your sibling.”

            “He’s pissy!” Ms. Locklear grumbled.

            “Look,” I said, “We came here to blend in. Never mind what he does or how he feels.” Noticing that others were doing a slow waltz to the soft music playing from a speaker system in the corner of the room, I took one of Ms. Locklear’s hands in mine and placed my other hand behind her back.

            “What are you doing?” She asked, though she did not fight me.

            “Blending in.” I answered smoothly as I tried to pull her along. She clearly did not know how to waltz whatsoever, but I did my best to lead her through it or at least mask her mistakes so that we would not become the centre of attention.

            “How did I know that you knew how to dance?” Ms. Locklear giggled, sounding somewhat nervous.

            “Well, you do know my past.” I reasoned. Ms. Locklear laughed briefly, but then we were both silent again. It had been so long since I had danced at all, let alone with a female, that I will admit I may have become somewhat captivated in the heat of the moment. Ms. Locklear seemed to quickly catch on, as the waltz was merely a pattern of the same steps over and over, and she grew better with each attempt to mirror my steps.

            “Why Jack?” I asked after a long silence.

            Ms. Locklear took a beat to answer, seeming playful in a way. “I like the name. Plus, you look like a Jack.” She said. I was about to comment further when she added, “A jack _ass_ , that is.”

            “Oh, pish,” I replied with a small grin. I was in an oddly good mood, and found myself taking her insult in good stride. Ms. Locklear got a chuckle out of my response, and our eyes met. It was not until we had held the gaze for a good five or more seconds that we both slowly stopped dancing, whether we realized it or not.

            I had suddenly realized just how beautiful the young woman in front of me was. I felt almost lucky to be dancing with her, as her body suited mine so well. Yet I could not yet put a word to what exactly it was that I was beginning to feel for her.

            “We should act now,” She said abruptly, still staring at me. Was she feeling the same way? I did not understand what she meant until she told me, “I’m going to go _upstairs_ , okay?” The emphasized word was enough to get the point across to me, and I nodded. That was when she stepped onto her toes and pecked my cheek. As she walked away, leaving me unexpectedly petrified, I could not tell if the action had been genuine, or simply part of the act. I felt a tad flushed, but I shook it off; certainly she had not meant anything by it, and why should I have cared even if she did? She was not interested in me, and I was positively not interested in her.

            I began discreetly searching for the door to the basement. It was not anywhere in the room I was in now, so after inspecting the walls for a door down to it, I started to walk back toward the lobby, only to notice Patill. He stood by a table, drinking a glass of wine. He looked annoyed. Against my better judgment, I approached him. He ignored me.

            “Is everything alright?” I asked him.

            He sighed. “Yeah.” He answered. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

            “You seem upset.”

            “Wow, you really are a clairvoyant.” Patill retorted, his voice thick with sarcasm.

            I ignored him. “We need to go downstairs now.”

            Patill snorted, turning his back to me. “You’re on your own there, buddy.”

            “Come on,” I demanded quietly, “Let’s go. Don’t jeopardize the plan, Patill.”

            “Have you tried the wine? It’s great.”

            “I don’t drink.”

            “Your loss, bro.”

            Realizing that Patill was baiting me off-topic just to avoid the subject, and that he was indeed not intending to stick to the plan, I growled under my breath, “Fine then, I will do this one by my lonesome,” and walked out into the lobby.

            I looked around. There was a door to my left, by the staircase. Perhaps that was the door to the basement. When I approached it and pulled it open, I found that I was right; within the door was a descending staircase that led into pitch darkness. Elliot would have hated the situation before me, but thankfully, I did not share his fear of the dark. Still, however, I felt apprehensive about descending.

            Convincing myself that I probably was not in any immediate danger, I carefully walked down into the basement. Thanks to the small amount of light pouring in from upstairs, my eyes were able to adjust somewhat, and I could make out that the basement was rather large. It seemed there was a collection of cardboard boxes at the back of the room, but I had trouble seeing them clearly. I cautiously began to step toward them, sticking to the wall. There did not seem to be a switch anywhere. As my eyes adjusted a bit more, I stepped away from the wall and approached the boxes. My vision grew slightly darker as I stepped deeper into the cellar. That was why I jumped when I heard Mr. Tiller’s voice, almost immediately to my right as I was about to touch the boxes.

            “I don’t believe you should be down here, Jack.” He told me.

            I jolted back, turning my head in the direction of his voice. I could just barely make out his silhouette, leaning against the wall. I did not say anything in response to his remark.

            “Huh, Jack.” Mr. Tiller scoffed. He raised his head, that much I could tell when I saw hazel. His eyes seemed to be… glowing, almost. “Funny name. Not yours, though, is it?”

            I felt my veins run cold. “I…” Alas, I could think of nothing to say.

            “That’s alright. I know why you’re here, and I suppose I know why Jill’s concerned enough to call a clairvoyant. I mean, admittedly, I probably haven’t been quite like myself these past few days.”

            “You know who I am?” I asked.

            “Dr. Cheshire,” He answered. “Am I right?”

            I did not answer.

            “I know I’m right.”

            “What’s in these boxes?” I decided to get right to the point.

            “Did you drink the wine?”

            I did not understand. “No, I do not drink.” I answered again.

            “How unfortunate,” Mr. Tiller replied. “I had hoped it would be that easy to remove you from the picture, but I suppose I underestimated you.”

            I was beginning to realize what he meant. “What’s in these boxes?!”

            “Nothing, yet.” Mr. Tiller admit. “But they will all be filled to the brim by the time the night is over. And then I’ll burn this building to the ground.”

            _The wine was poisoned!_

            “But don’t worry,” Mr. Tiller reassured me with malice in his voice, “You won’t be joining anyone in the fire. I know a lot of people who will be very happy to see your corpse, Dr. Cheshire.”

            I had to do something, and fast. The lives of anyone upstairs that had imbibed the wine, including Patill, were resting in my hands. However, I knew that if I attempted to dash upstairs, Mr. Tiller would rush me. Though he appeared old, if he was truly an android, I stood no chance.

            “Mr. Tiller…” I attempted to reason with him. “Mr. Tiller, please, think about this. You do not need to do this. Your wife, she…”

            “She’s not _my_ wife.”

            Sensing that my only two options were immediate fight or immediate flight, I chose the latter, turning around and making a break for the stairs.  
            “PATILL!!” I screamed. Mr. Tiller was right behind me, I could feel it, which was why I was not surprised when he grabbed my ankle as I rushed up the stairs. He pulled me off balance, and in the resulting fall, I slammed my jaw into one of the stairs, stunning myself. Patill was there in a moment’s notice, and when he saw what was going on, he rushed down the stairs and started kicking at Mr. Tiller. Seemingly unaffected by Patill’s attacks, Mr. Tiller wrapped his arms around me, and before I knew it, I was being flung across the room. I hit the ground at an odd angle, hurting my leg, but I hardly noticed it under the pain radiating from my jaw as I lay there on my side.

            I could hear both Patill and Ms. Locklear fighting with Mr. Tiller now. My heart ached, and I do not mean that metaphorically. As I clutched my chest, I began to cough wetly and felt liquid running down my face. Damn, not now. I turned my head up to look at the fight taking place across the room. Though my vision was now mostly blue, I could somehow see better in the dark like this. I snarled and got to my feet, no longer caring about the pain I was in. Trying to predict everyone’s movements so I did not hit the wrong person, I soon lunged forward. I tackled Mr. Tiller to the floor, where I grabbed his hair and began to beat his head into the ground. I kept doing this as he clawed at me, until he stopped. I felt hands grabbing at my arms, but I shrugged them off. When I felt the hands again, I threw my head back, hoping to hit someone, but I did not connect with anything.

            “ _George!!_ ” I heard Mrs. Tiller shriek, but I was not paying much attention. I had to keep doing what I was doing. He could still get back up. I had to make sure he would not get back up.

            “Doc!” Patill’s voice shouted. “Doc, stop it, you’ve done enough!” I continued to fight against the arms grabbing at me. They did not appear to be Patill’s, though, as he sounded like he was off to my right somewhere.

            “LET GO OF ME!!” I roared before I realized what I was doing.

            “Dr. Cheshire!!” Ms. Locklear’s voice was what I heard before one of the hands trying to restrain me smacked me upside the head. I grabbed the hand, yanking it forward. I pulled Ms. Locklear to the floor beside Mr. Tiller, who I sat over, and when I realized that it had been her trying to restrain me and that I had probably just hurt her, something in me snapped back to clarity. The poisoned wine!

            “Did you drink the wine?!” I growled at her.

            “Wh—what—”

            “ _Did you drink the bloody wine?!_ ”

            “No!”

            I whipped my head around toward the staircase, the direction in which I had heard Mrs. Tiller’s voice. Seeing that she was standing there, I whipped my hand up and pointed at her, causing her to flinch.  
            “You!” I shouted at her. “Get yourself and anyone else that consumed anything tonight, be it wine or cheese or whatever other shit your husband served straight to a bloody hospital: you’ve all been poisoned!!” I was still rather aggressive, as I had not fully come back to my senses, and I was still seeing blue. I was probably a waking nightmare in that moment.

            Mrs. Tiller, frightened both by myself and my words, rapidly nodded her head before rushing back upstairs as fast as her old body would carry her. I looked down at Mr. Tiller, slowly calming down, and I realized that I had probably gone a little bit overkill. He certainly would not be getting up is all I will say for his state after my outburst. I turned my head to my right and saw Ms. Locklear nearly plastered to the wall, watching me cautiously with wide eyes. Her hair had come down from its bun, either during the scuffle with Mr. Tiller or when I yanked her to the floor. Patill knelt beside her, clearly ready to attack me if necessary.

            Not knowing what else to do, I slowly raised my hands. My apathetic, expressionless look probably did not help, nor did my eyes, which were probably still entirely blue, but I said, “I won’t hurt you,” and hoped it would be enough to make them trust me.

            “Yeah, well, you would’ve just a minute ago, and you nearly did,” Ms. Locklear countered, “so why should we believe you?”

            I fought the urge to yell at her, instead calmly replying, “I apologize for that. I… I get like this sometimes, I cannot explain it. I am calming down, though. You are safe.”

            Ms. Locklear stared at me. Apparently finding what she wanted, she let down her guard with a deep exhale. “Fine. What did you find out?”

            “The wine—” I remembered that Patill had been drinking the wine, and shot him a glare. “Patill, the wine was poisoned.”

            “Oh, shit.” He spat quietly, really almost comically. “I was wondering why I was feeling sick.”

            “We should get him to the hospital.” I told Ms. Locklear.

            “Yeah. But did he say anything else?” The woman asked.

            “Only that he planned to kill everyone here and burn them in those empty boxes he brought in.” I answered. I decided to leave out the fact that he knew me somehow, as I was still curious as to just what he meant by his warning that people wanted me dead.

            Accepting that answer, Ms. Locklear and I helped Patill upstairs, and from there we left the residence. We brought Patill to the car, placing him in beside Tremble, who looked up at us in confusion and what could have been concern.

            “I’m good, Oct,” Patill reassured him, “Just dying. Y’know, nothin’ unusual.” His cheery, wittily sarcastic manner still remained even while poisoned, and I think I may have begun to respect him purely for that.

            Ms. Locklear sat in the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. I looked at her and began to frown. I had nearly hurt her. I felt ashamed of my lack of control, though I was honestly relieved that I had not done anything more to harm her.  
            “Ms. Locklear?” I spoke softly.

            “What?” She asked, rather brusquely so, but she clearly did not mean any ill will by it and was just being casual.

            “I am very sorry for my actions. I did not mean to harm you.” I told her.

            She was silent for a moment, until the engine started up, at which point she responded calmly with: “It’s fine. I’ve experienced worse.”


	34. Chapter 34

            The following morning, I woke up feeling even worse than the night before. My head was spinning from the get go, causing me to lift my pillow from behind my head and cover my face with it. As I laid there, eyes pinched shut in the darkness between my face and the pillow, I tried to remember what had happened the night before. For a long moment, it was all just a blur. I only vaguely recalled that I had spent any time with the Canaries at all. What had we done, though? I could not remember. In spite of my headache, I stood up and stretched, only to cover my mouth. I felt abysmal.

            I stumbled into the bathroom, where I proceeded to throw up into the toilet. I either did not look or did not notice the most revealing thing about my condition: what exactly I had thrown up, for I merely shut the lid and flushed the contraption. Then I leaned back against the wall, my lips quivering. I was so cold, and there was a pain again somewhere in my abdomen. I sat on the floor for a while, trying to wait out the pain and vertigo for what must have been at least half an hour, then slowly stood and approached the bathroom mirror.

            I looked like hell. I brought up my bare hand and pinched at the skin on my face; it was still sagging, however slightly. While I used to look like I was in my mid-twenties at most, I now appeared to be in my early to mid- _thirties at least_. The dark bags under my eyes only helped further express how pale my skin was. I had a little bit of blue, Eclipse Potion for sure, on my lips. Thinking nothing of it, I wiped it away.

            Staring at my own face, the previous night suddenly came back to me… or, well, most of it did. I could not remember where exactly we had been, but I did remember that I had gone berserk in the basement, and…

            I looked at my right hand. It was still bare from the previous night. I had held Ms. Locklear’s hand, also bare, in this hand. We had made skin-to-skin contact, more than I had ever had with anyone in more than two hundred years. What I lacked in memory of the setup of the night, I made up for in detailed memory of how beautiful she was. She lacked the tiny waist brought by corsets in my time, but for some reason, I found myself okay with that. She was so stunning, that I was not sure that a corset would have even been able to enhance her looks.

            I carefully shook my head. I had to stop thinking of Ms. Locklear that way. I had murdered her aunt, uncle, and unborn cousin for crying out loud, and very likely drove her father mad with grief. I tried to distract myself by thinking of Oliver, but that would not help me, especially since I remembered how his last words to me had been instructing me to find a woman to spend the rest of my miserable life with. I dared not think of Elliot, though; I still was not ready to face any thoughts of him. Instead, I looked back at myself in the mirror.

            I hurt everyone I work with. That was the way of thought that had led me to work with the Canaries. However, did that have to be so? It had only been a few days, but my idea of Ms. Locklear had changed drastically enough for me to suddenly not want to hurt her or her friends. Their case was not over yet, and leaving them might leave them as pigs to the slaughter, but the previous night I had nearly hurt Ms. Locklear anyway. I had a difficult decision to make. In the end, I had no choice but to think somewhat of Elliot; I had abandoned him. I had destroyed myself with that action. What if I left the Canaries, only to hear later of their deaths? I doubt I would be able to live with myself. I may even go mad. Gripping the edge of the sink, I sighed deeply. I had no choice, then. If I left, I would lose my mind. If I stayed and hurt them, I would snap. Either way, insanity was probably the only thing that waited in my future.

            Suddenly, I found myself aggressively shaking my head. No, that would not be the case. It would be different with the Canaries, I insisted to myself. It would not end the same way as Autumnwolf. I would not hurt them, directly or indirectly. I was only there to help.  
            “No one else needs to die,” I murmured to my reflection, almost unconsciously.

            I straightened my posture and rubbed my left eye, yawning. Just as quickly as I resumed with my normal morning, I snapped my mouth shut mid-yawn and my eyes widened. What time was it? I was supposed to be in the office with Ms. Shan. I had _work_ today. Tripping over my own feet, I rushed into the living room and looked at the wall clock.

            It was half past eleven.

            I let out a yell, of what emotion exactly I am not sure, and practically leapt to the phone. Pounding the numbers in, I waited anxiously for Ms. Shan to answer, tapping my foot against the floor. It took a few rings, but Ms. Shan finally answered.

            “Hello, Doctor.” She answered pleasantly, sounding like she was in a crowed place, but I assumed that was just my imagination.

            “Ms. Shan, I am so sorry. How many clients have come in?” I asked shamefully.

            There was a long pause.

            “Ms. Shan?”

            “Um, Dr. Cheshire…” I could hear her giggling a bit. “You took the week off, remember?”

            I had to take a moment to blink. I did not remember that, but also could not recall what day of the week it even was.

            My assistant continued, “It’s only Wednesday. You don’t have to come back to work until next Monday.”

            “I… But…” I was admittedly rather confused. I took the week off? I racked my brain, but could not remember when I said that. Had I said that? I felt like I was losing time.  
            “Ms. Shan, when… When did I say that?”

            “Sunday, the fourteenth.” She replied.

            I decided to pretend that I had remembered to save face.  
            “Oh… Oh, yes, I remember now. Forgive me… Why are you in the office today, then?”

            The girl giggled. “I’m not at the office. I gave you my cell’s number, remember? I’m at the grocery store right now.”

            I thought about Ms. Locklear abruptly. She had said that she had started her period, and that she may be incapacitated in pain today. It was an awkward subject to breach, especially with a girl that may or may not have still held feelings for me, but I for some reason wanted to extend a gesture of kindness to Ms. Locklear. Perhaps we had merely got off on the wrong foot with one another.

            “Ms. Shan…” I took a breath. “Could I ask you a favour?”

* * *

 

            Both the ensuing conversation with and visit from Ms. Shan were rather awkward on my end, but afterwards, I called the number I had received from Ms. Locklear to contact the Black Canaries. I assumed it was Patill’s number, and something in the back of my head told me he would not answer it (though I could not remember why), but to my surprise, Ms. Locklear answered it.

            “Yep?” She spoke very briefly and sharply, obviously in pain though she tried to mask it.

            “Hello, Ms. Locklear. It’s Dr. Che—”

            “Yeah, I know.” Again, someone I called knew who I was without me saying anything.

            “How… How did you know?” I questioned.

            “Caller I.D.” She said, “Invest in it.”

            I sighed. “Look, I just called to say…” I waited for her to cut me off, but she did not. I had to assume the number was hers, as I remembered she had given it to me. That made me wonder, though, why Patill had answered it the first time I called.  
            “I just wanted to apologize for last night.”

            “Pfft,” Ms. Locklear shut me down. “It’s nothing. You don’t need to apologize.”

            “I lost control and… I could have hurt you a lot more than that.”

            “But you stopped when you realized you were about to attack me, didn’t you?” She pointed out.

            “Well, yes, but…” I decided to try to change the subject. “Are you alright?”

            “Yeah, yeah.” She moved away from the phone a bit as she said that, causing her voice to become a bit hard to hear.

            “You told me yesterday you knew you would be in agony today.” I told her.

            “What? Oh. Oh, yeah, that. Yeah, I’m fuckin’ dying here, man. It hurts like a bitch.” She admit.

            I decided to just put my proposition out there. “Listen, Ms. Locklear, you may be right in that I do not understand what you are going through, but I have an assistant who I am sure does. I have something to give you, from us.”

            There was a pause, which I understood to be her contemplating my words.  
            “Okay.” She said. “How do you plan to get them to me, though? I’m not getting up from my couch.”

            “Well, I would like to call on you.” I admit.

            “What?”

            I blinked. She did not know what I meant, it seemed. I reworded my inquiry: “I would like to deliver it to you, personally. At your house.”

            “Oh, you want to visit.” She was silent for a moment. “Well, see, it’s just, I’m not very presentable right now, and… My house is a pig-sty.”

            “Well, I… I could just drop it off with you and be on my way.”

            After another beat of silence, she gave in. “Ah, what the hell, fine. I’m the only red house on Dartmouth Drive.”

            Dartmouth Drive was a bit of a long walk from my apartment, but I did not complain. “I’ll be there in around forty minutes.” I said.

            “Alright. Don’t die on the way here.”

            “No promises.” I responded. I had said it as a joke, but I almost meant it seriously, since I still felt horrible. Regardless, I hung up the phone and grabbed the grocery bag Ms. Shan had left for me. I grabbed my coat from the closet and slipped it on. It was not as cold today, despite only being late January. The snow was already beginning to melt, but winter was not quite over, not just yet. I pulled on my shoes before heading out, locking my door as I left. I had a long walk ahead of me, but it was nothing I was not used to.

* * *

 

            When I finally reached the only red house on Dartmouth Drive, holding a grocery bag in my left hand, I hesitated before knocking on the door. Ms. Locklear could have easily lied to me about her location. She (likely rightfully so) did not like me, so she had reason to lead me on. I was still having an internal debate about whether or not to knock on the door when it suddenly swung open before me. I flinched, but standing in the doorway was Ms. Locklear herself.

            The woman’s scarlet hair was in a messy ponytail and she held a two-litre plastic bottle of water to her lower abdomen. She looked somewhat pale, and her discomfort was clear on her face.  
            “Yo,” She greeted casually, leaning against the doorframe.

            “Good afternoon, Ms. Locklear.” I told her before extending the shopping bag toward her.

            Ignoring the bag, Ms. Locklear craned her neck to look around behind me.  
            “Did you take a bus?” She asked, apparently noticing that there was no car parked in her driveway.

            “No, I walked.” I was honest with her, and though my tone did not express any bother at the notion, Ms. Locklear’s brow furrowed.

            “You walked for almost an hour to get here?”

            It had not felt like an hour, so I merely answered, “I suppose I did.”

            “Um…” She glanced back into her modest two-storey house and looked back at me. She stepped back, using her free hand to gesture into her home. “I changed my mind. You can come in and rest your feet for a bit if you want.”

            I could not help but smile a bit, though I shook my head. “I am fine, ma’am. Really, I—”

            She raised a brow at me and cut me off with: “Did you just _ma’am_ me? C’mon, man, I’m not that old.”

            I said nothing.

            “Just come on in. I’d feel bad if I made you walk all the way here and didn’t even let you sit down for a little while.” She insisted. Perhaps I really had been too hard on her. She actually seemed to be quite kind-hearted, as much as she appeared to want to mask it over with bravado and pride.

            With a light sigh, I gave in, stepping into Ms. Locklear’s home. She had not been lying when she said her house was a pig-sty, but I decided not to judge or say anything about the interior’s messy state. I noticed that a lot of the walls were rather barren; it had been the same way in Elliot’s home in New Providence, but I had expected a woman to be keener to decorate.

            “How long have you lived here, if I may ask?” I inquired.

            “Less than a year.” She admit. “I moved in here on my own when I turned eighteen.”

            Though I felt it was an awkward subject to bring up, I felt it was necessary to know. Without turning to her, I asked: “Where is your father? How is he?”

            She did not answer for a long moment, and I heard her sit down on the couch by the front door. I stared straight ahead at nothing in particular, waiting for her to speak.  
            “I left because of him, honestly.” She told me. “He’s still in Texas, last I heard.”

            I turned to look at her. She was wearing sweatpants and a loose-fitting plaid shirt, but I thought the modest attire made her a bit cute.  
            “You’ve come a long way, then.” I remarked.

            “Sure have.” She chuckled somewhat, pulling her knees up closer to her chest to hold the bottle closer to her stomach. “Are you just going to stand in my hall all day? Have a seat.” She pat the cushion to her left.

            Reluctantly, I sat down beside her. I looked at what was on the television; some sort of reality show.

            “Sorry,” She laughed, “I like to watch trash when I feel like a used garbage can like this.”

            I stifled a small snicker, and then both of us were silent. The faint sound of the women on the television arguing was all that could be heard. I must have missed my cue to speak, because Ms. Locklear sat upright and cleared her throat.

            “What’d you bring?” She asked me.

            I decided it would be best to just hand her the bag. She lift her brows briefly in intrigue as she took the bag. Straightening her legs, she placed it on her lap. The first thing she pulled out was a box. She stared at it, still for a moment, just blinking.

            “You… had your assistant buy me tampons?” She asked flatly.

            “Well, I… I told her to buy… you know…” I was not sure what to say. Were tampons not the correct thing to bring?

            Ms. Locklear laughed for a moment before noticing my nervous expression and patting me on the arm.  
            “No, no, I’m—I’m not laughing because they’re bad. It’s just…” She lost her breath in laughter for a beat before recovering again. With an amused and possibly somewhat touched grin on her face, she continued: “It’s just that no guy’s ever brought me _tampons_ before.”

            I shrugged, not sure how to respond. She shook her head, still giggling, and continued looking through the contents of the bag. Finding a bottle in there, she gasped and looked at it.

            “Oh my God, you got me Midol.”

            “Well, you said you were in pain.” I said.

            The woman beamed at me. “Thanks, Doc. I hear this shit’s the best, but I’ve never been willing to pay for it…”

            “I hope it helps.” I gave her a small smile. She smiled back, a genuine, kind smile. She then reached further into the bag, having realized there was one last thing. The last purchase, which I had made sure before I left was at the bottom of the bag, had been my idea. I had offered to pay Ms. Shan back for the money she spent on it, but she had refused to accept my payment, calling it a favour.

            From the bottom of the bag, Ms. Locklear began to pull up a box. “No fuckin’ way,” was her response before even pulling it all the way out, “You didn’t.”

            “I do not know if it will help at all, but I heard somewhere that ladies enjoy chocolate.” I confessed. Ms. Locklear pulled the box of chocolates from the bag and gawked at it for a moment.

            “That’s so sweet,” She gushed, “literally…!”

            Feeling pleased with myself for making her so happy, as when I had arrived she looked miserable, I only smiled at her, leaning back somewhat against the arm of her couch. I just stared at her for a long moment, watching her as she brought her hand to her wide grin and started to tear up.

            “Is something the matter?” I asked, feeling a bit concerned suddenly.

            She shook her head. “No, I just…” She laughed. “God, I feel like an idiot for crying, but…” Her brown eyes turned to me, filled with tears though she continued to simper.  
            “I’ve never had anyone do anything nice like this for me… and yet, the first person who does it for me is the man my father despises, the man I treated so poorly just because of my crazy father’s grudge.”

            I frowned, though it was not because I was offended by her words.

            Wiping at her eyes and still laughing at herself, she continued with her confession. “I’ve been with a few guys. My father told me that was what I was best for, y’know? As a woman… But I mean, I’ve never _been with_ anyone, y’know? It’s always just friends with benefits, or…” She shook her head and sniffled. “Wow, I don’t know how this turned into me crying to you about my pathetic life. I’m sorry.”

            “It’s fine.” I told her gently. “I am a psychiatrist, after all.”

            She sniggered. “You probably deal with this kind of shit all the time then, huh?”

            “I enjoy listening.” I admit.

            “And I like to talk.” She was quiet for a moment. “I guess the point I’m trying to make, Cheshire, is… I should hate you. I _wanted_ to hate you when we first met, but… I dunno. We had a terrible first meeting, but you still gave me a chance. You’re almost stubbornly good-natured. If I said I hated you, it’d be a lie. My father would kill me if he heard me saying this, but I think I really like you. You’re a kind man.”

            “Perhaps too kind for my own good, sometimes.” I joked softly.

            “I can tell you’d do anything to undo what you did to my father…” Ms. Locklear professed in a sombre tone.

            “It’s true,” I confessed, “I would. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about what I did that day and hate myself.”

            “If I’m feeling better tomorrow, would you be free to maybe… hang out?” Ms. Locklear proposed, changing the subject.

            I thought for a moment. “I know a nice restaurant nearby. Perhaps you would like to have dinner with me instead?”

            After taking a beat to think it over, Ms. Locklear inquired: “Is it one of those formal restaurants?”

            “Sort of.” I answered. “Not really.”

            She smiled. “Sure, then. Call me around five tomorrow, and I’ll tell you if I’m okay to go.”

            I nodded. “Alright. I should go now.”

            The woman stood up to let me out. “If you must,” she joked. I opened the door on my own, but turned in the doorway for her. She smiled softly at me. I could tell that she’d put makeup on, probably only for my arrival, as her mascara had leaked down her face a bit with her happy tears.

            “Thanks for the chocolate and stuff.” She sniggered.

            “If you need anything else, give me a call.” I told her.

            Further touched, Ms. Locklear then kissed my cheek like she had the night before. Then she said, “Oh, I suppose I should tell you: Chance is fine. They let him out of the hospital last night.”

            I paused for a bit too long before nodding. Had he been in the hospital?

            “The poison wine wasn’t so poisoned after all, it seemed. Thankfully they’ll all be fine.” She added.

            Like a train slamming into a brick wall, the rest of the night came back to me. That was right, Patill had consumed the poisoned wine, but… it was not poisoned?  
            I shook my head. “It… It _was_ poisoned. He told me that, and it is the only logical explanation for…”

            Ms. Locklear shrugged, seeming just as stumped as myself. “The staff at the hospital found nothing wrong with any of them. All of the symptoms were just in their heads, apparently.”

            A conclusion formed in my mind. Had Mr. Tiller _wanted_ me to tell everyone they were poisoned? They had only felt ill because I told them they were ill, as is the brain’s way of dealing with things. If you want to feel sick, you convince yourself you are sick, and whether you are or not, your brain will make you think you are. I had made them “ill”. What else would they have done without medical confirmation that they were well?

            “Doc?” Ms. Locklear’s voice snapped me from my thoughts.

            I shook my head. “I suppose that must be correct, then. I believe he must have wanted me to make everyone think they were poisoned. People will revert to the darker side of human nature when faced with the fear of death, so he must have been planning to use that…” I confided my conclusion to her. She shivered.

            “That’s so messed up. Sounds about right, though…”

            After a beat of silence, I straightened myself out. “Well, I should probably take my leave.”

            “Take care.” Ms. Locklear told me.

* * *

 

            I returned home by myself and stayed at home for the rest of the day, most of which I slept. When I woke up, it was six in the evening. I decided to turn on the television to pass my time, but there was nothing good on. I kept thinking about Ms. Locklear. I could not believe that, though I had only met her less than a week prior, I was already starting to develop some sort of feelings for her.

            I thought about preparing for our date the following day, but I quickly realized there really was nothing to plan. I was going to take her to the restaurant Ms. Shan introduced me to. Not knowing what to do, I more or less just shut my brain off and sat on one of my three couches, staring at the television. I was not sure why I had three couches. I never had anyone over. The coffee table in the centre of the three couches was empty as well, and as it was made of glass, it would have been very hard to see if it were not for its black wood frame.

            I had to have been sitting there, completely vacant, for at least an hour before I heard a knock on my door. At first I only turned my head toward it, confused. I was not expecting anyone. Maybe, I thought, it was Patill. However, that did not make sense. Was I merely imagining it? Another knock dismissed that thought. If I knew what was to come, I would not have stood up to approach the door at all. Alas, I did not, and, thinking about it, I do not think avoiding what awaited me would have made any difference in the long run.

            So, I stood up, and I walked to the door. I did not have a peephole on my door, so I hesitated before opening it.  
            “Who’s there?” I asked through the door.

            There was silence.

            “Hello?”

            “Chesh?”

            I froze. I knew that voice. That voice could only have come from one person. I whipped the door open faster than ever, nearly hitting myself with it as I did, and I stared at the person standing in front of my door.

            In a long gray coat, zipped up into a turtleneck and made of very thick wool, standing before my very eyes against all of the odds… was Detective Elliot Mortensen.


	35. Chapter 35

            On the night of the seventeenth, I stood in the kitchen, alone. I was trying to fill up a cup with water, but my hands were shaking too much. It felt as though everything I had ever known had been flipped upside down in a matter of seconds. I placed the cup down in the sink, under the stream of water, watching the clear liquid pour over the edges, and slicked my hair back. I wanted to stay like that forever, for no particular reason other than I felt like I would die if I did not. Against my own will, I dumped out the cup and filled it half way with cold water before twisting the faucet off with trembling hands.

            In the living room, on the leftmost couch, sat Elliot Mortensen. He had removed his coat at my stammered request, and was now wearing a black dress shirt with red trim, and black dress pants. His shoes were Italian, black, and of rather high quality. On his hands, I noticed, he wore black leather gloves. I had to wonder just what he had been doing in his absence since his… I could not bear to remember my last moment with him. Admittedly, I was ignoring the obvious in my denial, but I would have lost my mind if I did not.  
            His hair hung around his shoulders, still curling up but a tad longer than I remembered it. As I stared at him from the doorway, I could tell by his stiffness that he knew I was looking at him, but he allowed me to gaze for a minute longer before turning his head to look at me. He had kept his stubble. His face was exactly how I remembered it, though it looked healthier, like when I had first seen him.

            “Here…” I said with a dry throat as I handed the glass of water to my unexpected guest.

            Elliot nodded, a small smile at the corner of his lips, though frankly that was how his mouth naturally fell when he was not intentionally frowning, so perhaps he was not actually smiling. I did not watch him as he took a sip of the water (though, frankly, I should have now that I look back on it), and instead slowly took a seat on the rightmost couch, choosing to sit across from him as opposed to right beside him. I was not emotionally prepared to do the latter yet.

            Elliot put the glass down on the table in front of him and clasped his hands between his knees. His body language was very open, so his legs were spread apart quite wide, though not necessarily unnaturally so.  
            “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He told me. “Did you move?”

            I reluctantly nodded. I could not make eye contact with him, so I just stared at his hands. Even that was stirring something in my chest, but I refused to move my eyes.  
            “Yes…” I admit. “I moved here a few years ago…”

            “Here I was thinking you still lived in a house…” Elliot snickered at himself. “It’s a nice apartment, though. I like it.”

            “Th—thank you…” There was a long bout of silence, so I had to ask what was on my mind. “Why… How are you here? What have you been doing?”

            Looking up, I saw him scratch at his hairline, a gesture I had seen him do a few times; a uniquely _Elliot_ gesture. I felt my heart melt. I was beginning to tear up. Could it really be him…?

            “Well…” He began awkwardly, as if not really knowing where to begin. “Let’s just say I’ve been busy. I’m just glad I finally found you, Chesh.” He ended his statement with a warm smile, and I ignored the fact that his eyes did not express the same emotion.

            “Elliot, I…” I lowered my head, shaking it, before I had an outburst. “I don’t understand! You… You died! I spent all these years thinking you were dead and gone, and…” I bit my lip, my tears beginning to stream down my face. “Why did it take you eight bloody years to find me…?!”

            Elliot frowned a bit. “Let’s be honest, Cheshire: you didn’t really make it easy for _anyone_ to find you.”

            “I’m a psychiatrist! I’ve been a psychiatrist, and a damn popular one, since—”

            “Since you left me behind?”

            The accusation, as sharp as a blade, was thrust at me suddenly, and my mouth snapped shut. Elliot glared at me, scowling, however slightly.

            “I felt so betrayed…” Elliot confessed, running his index finger around the mouth of the glass I gave him. “So… abandoned. You made me promise never to leave you behind. I guess I should’ve made you promise me you’d never leave _me_ behind, shouldn’t I?”

            I did not know what to say for a moment, and I stumbled on my words until I found an intelligible sentence to mumble in my defence.  
            “Elliot, that’s… That’s not…” Needless to say, I lost the sentence as quickly as I found it.

            He shook his head slowly. “It’s fine.” He said bluntly. “The past is in the past, I guess. What matters is that I caught you.” The way he said this sent a shiver down my spine, but I figured I was misreading his tone to be darker than it was meant to be.

            “Where are you staying?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

            Elliot began to chuckle nervously. “Wow, you’re probably not going to believe me, but… I actually don’t have a place to stay. I was dropped off here on my own.”

            “From where?” I inquired. I needed to know everything. He looked to be employed, but by who?

            “Confidential,” was all he said, smirking at me somewhat.

            I pouted, but I wiped at my tears and said, “You can stay here if you want… I mean, it’s the least I can do after…” As I trailed off, Elliot smiled.

            “I mean,” he responded, “if you’re alright with that, I’d like that, Chesh.” It was only at that point that I realized he was not going to refer to me by my first name, even though being on a first name basis was the biggest thing about our last moment together on his supposed deathbed. In fact, he had not mentioned that moment at all. Was it too much for him to remember? Again, I ignored a red flag, desperately wanting—no, _needing_ —Elliot to still be alive.

            I brought my hand to my mouth and barely stifled a laugh. “Oh, God… I just… I’m so happy you’re alive, Elliot.”

            Elliot smiled. He then stood up and walked around the table. I watched him closely as he sat down to my right, sitting beside me now. He leaned his head back and sighed.  
            “It’s just you and me again, Cheshire.”

            It was not until he said those words that I remembered Ms. Locklear and the Black Canaries. I still had work to do with them, and I had a date with Ms. Locklear for the following night. I wondered if Elliot had expected me to not move on. Nervously, I did not say anything, only lowering my head.

            “Right?” Elliot asked in a low voice after a few beats.

            It took me a moment to speak. “Well…” I had Ms. Shan, too. I was not alone.  
            “Well, no… Elliot, I…” I gave him a long, guilty look. He stared back at me, a tad concerned. “I moved on. I thought you were dead. It’s been _eight_ years. I have some friends now, and… I’ve met someone.”

            “Wh—…” Elliot was now the one having trouble finding the right words to say. “What, you… You mean, like… _romantically?_ ”

            With hesitance, I nodded. “I do believe so…”

            “Who is it?” Elliot asked, or rather, almost _snapped._ “Tell me everything about her.”

            I ignored the fact that he knew it was a female I had begun to fall for, assuming it was just a fair guess. I did not see a reason to lie to him.  
            “Well, her name is… Her name is Lenore Locklear. She is a beautiful lady, with scarlet hair and deep brown eyes.” As I described her eyes, my own met Elliot’s, and I realized that his eyes looked just like hers. Had I admired her eyes just because they reminded me of his?

            Elliot quietly stared at me, his gaze hard and, if I did not know any better, vaguely aggressive. Was he jealous?

            “She is… slender, to say the least, but she has nice curves. She is very kind, though she tries to hide it, and she really just needs someone to show her that she can be loved. I would like to be that man.” I was no longer sure of what I was saying; I was not paying attention to what I said, so I just said the first things that came to mind. I felt as though I meant my words, though.

            Elliot scoffed and looked away. “Women can be so difficult, though,” he remarked. “You of all people should know that.”

            “Perhaps,” I answered, ignoring his passive-aggressive tone, “but they love like no other. I mean, you loved your wife, did you not?”

            Elliot shook his head as if dismissing the subject. Perhaps bringing up his wife, I thought, was not the best thing to do, but he… strangely did not seem to mind.  
            “Whatever.” He said.

            “Are you upset with me?” I nervously inquired.

            Elliot lift his hand and pat my head. With his thumb he stroked my hair like he had during our last encounter.  
            “No,” He answered in a gentle voice. “No, I could never be upset with you, Chesh.”

            I said nothing, too busy reminiscing on the past. I thought of all the little moments with Elliot Mortensen, ones I had not considered important until his passing. The times we went grocery shopping together. The small jokes Elliot would always make. It was the little moments that had truly made my relationship with Elliot as powerful as it was. I cared for him more than anything in the world. He was my best friend.

            While I was still drowning in my memories, I felt cold, gloved hands gently clamp onto the sides of my face, turning my head to the right, where I saw Elliot. His eyes met mine, and he said to me then the words I wish I had said to him before it was too late: “I love you.”

            My eyes welled up with tears, and emotion seized my throat. There was a small smile on Elliot’s lips. It truly looked as though he meant those words. I was fooled completely.  
            “Elliot…”

            I hugged him tightly, burying my face into his chest. I could not hear his heartbeat, but I assured myself it was just too stable for it to be audible. I began to sob, unable to hold back anymore. Elliot held me close to himself, consoling me as I was overwhelmed with emotion in his arms. I was too inconsolable to speak, so I just kept crying his name.

            “There, there…” Elliot hummed, his words as soft as silk. “I’ve got you…”

            Before I knew it, still groggy from my nap, I had begun to doze off in his arms. I felt so safe. I did not want him to let go of me. Quietly, I felt him pick me up, and he began to walk me in what I assumed to be the direction of the bedroom. He put me down in the bed and tried to move away, but I blindly grabbed for him and managed to catch some part of him.

            “Please…” I requested, “Lay with me for the night…” It was a silly, childish request, but after a moment, he got into the bed beside me. I opened my eyes, seeing his face so close to mine. He just gazed at me, nothing more. I was content for the first time in eight years, and, holding onto him tightly, I allowed myself to drift into a comfortable sleep.

            When I woke up the next morning, however, I was alone. As soon as I came to the conclusion that Elliot was no longer in bed beside me, I jolted upright and looked around. No sign of him in the bedroom. I jumped to my feet, ignoring how sick I still felt, and ran around. I searched every room in the apartment. He was not there anymore.

            I collapsed to my hands and knees, trembling as I stared at the floor. I was still alone. I had been foolish to think it was real, but clearly, it had been nothing more than a dream. It had felt so real, though… Was I losing my mind? I rushed into the bedroom and ripped open the closet. Elliot’s coat was still in there, untouched. I ripped it off of its hangar and started to scream at it.

            “Why did you leave me?!” I demanded the article of clothing to answer my desperate questions. “How could you abandon me like that?! We had a promise, dammit, a promise that we’d never leave each other, and yet…” Again, I crumpled to the floor, still holding the coat in my hands. “And yet, I left you behind… Oh, God, I…” Tears welled up in my desolate eyes. “I’m… I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry…! Elliot…! Oh, Elliot…!!” Pulling the coat up to my face, I began to bawl. My mind was playing tricks on me, desperately trying to make up for what I did to him, that was all…

            After a few minutes, I began to calm down. Nothing had changed. I still had to move on with my life. I sniffled and tried to regain my composure, doing so slowly but surely. I returned the coat to its place in the closet and decided it would be best to take a walk. I slipped on my coat, still sniffling, and walked across the living room, trying not to think too much. As I did, I failed to notice the neglected cup of water I had given to Elliot the night before, still sitting on the table in the centre of the room.

* * *

 

            Trying to get my mind off of Elliot was difficult. I could still hear him saying “I love you” as clear as day. It had felt so real, but it was impossible for it to have been so. It had to have been a dream. Still, I had trouble removing the dream from my mind.

            I returned home before noon and decided to make myself something to eat. I did not have much, but I had a bail of lettuce in my fridge, so I simply tore off a few leaves and ate them while leaning against the fridge. I quite liked lettuce. It was light, which suited my desires, since my stomach had shrunk so much over the years. Celery was alright as well, but I preferred lettuce for some reason. By the time I noticed it, I no longer thought anything of the glass of water, as I had convinced myself the event from last night had merely been a figment of my imagination.

            My denial was making me happier than ever. Almost… insanely happy. I did not care if anything was bothering me. My heart was telling me that everything was wrong, but I completely ignored it and my instincts. Everything was fine. I was going to have an okay day, and I was going to have a date with Ms. Locklear. I had just been bothered by a bad dream, or rather, a dream too good to be true.

            I could not remember if the restaurant I was about to go to needed reservations. For that matter, I could also not recall its name, so I could not call to check. I just had to hope that I still remembered how to get to it, and that I did not need to make a reservation. Suddenly, a worrisome thought popped into my head; what if she did not feel up to going? I tried to shake the concern from my head. Of course she would be willing to go… hopefully.

            When four o’clock rolled around, I could not remember if I was supposed to call her at four or five. I vaguely recalled that she had told me to call her at five, but half of my brain argued that it could have been four. Deciding that, even if I was wrong, earlier was better than later, I picked up my phone and grabbed the card with her number, dialling it. To my surprise, it rang through to her voice mail.

            “Too early, then.” My inner voice remarked. I opted not to leave a message, deciding I would call her at five. An hour later, I did so. Again, to her voice mail. This time, I left a message.

            “Ms. Locklear, as you may have already noticed, it’s Dr. Cheshire. I am calling to make sure we are still on for our date at six.” I said. “I am a bit worried about you, as I called you earlier, and you did not answer then, either. Call me back. If I do not hear back from you, I am going to drop by, just to check on you, alright? I will be waiting for your call.”

            I hung up the phone and let out an uneasy breath. Something was not sitting right with me. I was calling her cellphone. She did not strike me as the kind of person to ignore calls. I tried to ease my worry by reasoning that she may have left her phone downstairs, and her bedroom was upstairs. Maybe she was resting. Still, I was going to stay true to my word. If she did not call me back, I was going to go check on her.

            By six, I was ready to go pick Ms. Locklear up, but she still had not called me back. Now more worried than before, I grabbed my coat and left my apartment, locking the door behind me. I started walking to Ms. Locklear’s home, but soon started to speed walk, which turned into a light jog, which soon evolved into a full-on sprint. I was in front of her house, out of breath, within 30-40 minutes, and I took a moment to pant, catching my breath. Once I had regained some of my composure, I approached her door. As I extended my hand to knock, I stopped, because I noticed the chipped wood around the edge near the lock. My heart pounded.

            _Those scratches had not been there before._

            My gloved hands shaking, I reached for the handle of the door, slowly turning it. The door, unlocked, drifted open, revealing the whole house to me. Some of the lights were on. Reluctantly, only half present, I stepped into Ms. Locklear’s living room. From where I stood, down the hall, I could see the end of the kitchen. I could already see some things were knocked over. Afraid of what I might see, I shuffled my feet, scooching myself slowly closer.

            The kitchen was in disarray. Chairs were knocked over, but only those that would have been within arm’s reach of me. The backdoor hung open. I poked my head out into Ms. Locklear’s backyard. The back gate door was open as well.

            Blindly, I rushed upstairs. Only one door was open, and it seemed to be Ms. Locklear’s bedroom. The sheets on her bed were tossed about, and everything on the shelves on the way out had been knocked over. I stood at the foot of her bed, trying to picture what had happened, but when I turned around, I froze. There was a paper taped to the mirror over the dresser. I hesitantly stepped forward and pulled it off, straightening it in my hands to see what it said.

            “ _I’m dreadfully sorry for all of this, but it’s for your own good, Doctor._  
            “ _~ Elliot_ ”.


	36. Chapter 36

            When I found Ms. Locklear’s cellphone on the floor of her bedroom, I did not call the police. Honestly, I was not sure how to, since I had never actually used a cellphone. Somehow, I ended up opening her contact list, so I pressed my finger down on Patill’s name. I shakily put the flat phone up to my ear as it rung. Emotionally, I was not very stable at that moment. It seemed Elliot truly _was_ alive, but he had just kidnapped Ms. Locklear. I could only hope that he had not hurt her, and that hopeful bringing harm to her was not his intent.

            “Hey, babe,” Patill greeted when the call connected, thinking he was talking to Ms. Locklear.

            “Patill!” I shouted into the phone.

            “Whoa, what the fuck?” He laughed. “That you, Doc?”

            “It’s Ms. Locklear, she… She’s been kidnapped!”

            Patill took a beat to process my words. “I don’t understand.”

            “I am at her house right now! Everything is in disarray, things are knocked over, and she’s not here!” I impatiently explained. “She left her phone!”

            I heard Patill snicker. “Alright, you got me. Where is she? She’s beside you, right? Very funny, guys.”

            “I am dead serious right now, Patill! She has been kidnapped, and she is probably hurt!”

            “Look, her house is usually a mess. She’s probably just out.”

            “Would she really leave her phone behind?” I hissed, frustrated by his lack of confidence in my judgment.

            That silenced Patill for a good few seconds. “I was gonna say she probably forgot it, but she’s never forgotten her phone before.”

            “Everything is thrown about. The front door’s been forced into, it was unlocked, and the back door is wide open!” Holding the note from Elliot in my left hand, I held it up almost unconsciously. “There is a note here. It was taped to her bedroom mirror, and it is _not_ from her.”

            Patill huffed, but I knew I had him convinced. “I’m on my way. I’m only a ten minute run away.” After that, he hung up, so I pulled the phone from my ear.

            I put Ms. Locklear’s phone down on her bed and slipped on my gloves, which I had to remove to use the touchscreen. Then I simply sat on the edge of her bed, looking around the room. I could not believe what was happening. My best friend had essentially returned from the dead to kidnap my potential girlfriend. I found myself, a man who was not very religious, suddenly praying to whatever gods existed that Ms. Locklear would be alright. My focus was torn between her and Elliot.

            Elliot was doing this to get back at me for leaving him alone, that much I understood. However, I could not see how kidnapping a woman I had only met less than a week prior was supposed to complete his goal. Was it simply that he wanted to make me as alone as he had been? If so, everyone I knew was in danger. I did not know what I would do if he chose to go after Ms. Shan or anyone else I had become acquainted with over the past eight years, but why them? Why not come after me directly? He must have had an ulterior motive. I began to wonder who he was employed by. Perhaps he was working with someone who wanted me dead. No, not dead. Not yet. He would have killed me the night prior if that was his only goal.

            “He wants me to suffer,” said my inner voice. “That’s got to be it. He’s trying to make some sort of point. Maybe… he wants me to feel despair.”

            “He wants me to commit suicide…” I found myself mumbling.

            I will not deny that I had looked into methods of suicide shortly after my last conversation with Elliot. When it came to ending my own life, I admit that I was quite cowardly. I tried to find the cheapest and least painful method, and came up with carbon monoxide poisoning. Still, for some reason, I never did it. Instead, I would just stay in bed and cry. I suppose I simply lacked the motivation. I was too afraid that I would survive, so I never tried. However, the question was, if I lost everyone I had become friends with to Elliot simply because I liked them, would I find the motivation to go through with suicide?

            Overwhelmed by what I assume now was grief, I hunched forward and buried my head into my hands. I stayed that way until I heard someone come upstairs, and when I did finally look up, I saw Patill and Tremble standing in front of the doorway. Patill looked grimly serious, an expression I had not yet seen on him, and he scanned the bedroom over with his eyes before turning his gaze to me. He did not speak, so I stood up.

            “This is how I found the place.” I told him.

            “Where is she?” He asked.

            “I don’t know.”

            Tremble pushed past Patill and stood in front of me. The short man, still wearing mime makeup, had his chest puffed out a bit. He held his hand out, which I assumed to be his way of asking for the note, so I reluctantly placed it into his open palm. Straightening it out in his hands, Tremble silently skimmed the brief words written onto the paper before looking up at me again. He seemed confused, or perhaps even suspicious.

            “What does it say?” When Patill asked about the note, Tremble handed it over to him. The red-haired punk took his turn of reading it, whereas I nervously stood my ground. I had some explaining to do, but I was unsure of where I would even begin. No matter what I tried to say, it was not up for debate that the entire situation was insane.

            There was a very short pause when Patill finished reading the note. Then, he slowly looked up at me. He shared Tremble’s expression, but he looked a little bit angrier.

            “I can explain.” I stammered.

            “You expect me to believe this?” Patill demanded to know. “It’s signed by Elliot. As in that detective you worked with? The dead one?”

            His words were a tad insensitive, I felt, and my left eye twitched, but I managed to keep cool.  
            “Look,” I began, “I know it sounds crazy, but I _saw_ him. He showed up at my apartment.”

            “Sure, he did.” Patill scowled at me. “You told us yourself that he was dead.”

            “I thought he was!” I defended myself. “I thought he was, until he came knocking on my door last night!”

            “Okay. Give me proof, then.”

            I did nothing but blink. Proof? I had no proof.  
            “I… You’re… just going to have to believe me.” I told him.

            “Give me proof!” When he raised his voice, Patill was actually able to intimidate me a bit, and he managed to get a slight flinch out of me.

            “I don’t have any proof.”

            “If you don’t give me some goddamned proof.” Patill suddenly grabbed the collar of my coat, pulling me toward himself threateningly as he changed his tactic. “What the fuck have you done with her?”

            “I didn’t do anything!” I told him.

            “What did you do to my girl, huh?! You delusional sonuvabitch, I oughta—”

            “Your girl?” I asked. “She’s your girlfriend?”

            “No shit, bro.” He snarled at me. “Now, if you _didn’t_ do anything to her, do you wanna fuckin’ explain to me why you’re in my girlfriend’s house?”

            I started to stumble on my words. I had no idea that they were together romantically, but in hindsight, it should have been obvious. It would have explained why he had answered her cellphone once, and why he had been upset about Ms. Locklear dancing with me.

            “Well?” Patill continued. “Why are you here? How do you know where she lives? Have you been stalking her?!”

            “No! God, no!” I refuted. “She told me herself, yesterday!”

            Tremble did a hand gesture at me that I could not understand. It wasn’t until later that I figured out it was sign language.

            “Why would she tell you her address?”

            “Just hear me out. I just wanted to extend her a gesture of kindness. I brought her some chocolates yesterday.” There was no point in hiding anything from Patill. He deserved to know everything. “The plan was that I was going to take her out for dinner tonight.”  
            Patill’s hands gripped my coat tighter, but I put my hands out to calm him somewhat.  
            “I was not aware that she was your girlfriend. I apologize.” I believe I took it quite well, since I had genuinely been interested in hooking up with Ms. Locklear myself. Something told me that Patill was not a very good lover to her. Perhaps it was how she had told me that no man had ever been as kind to her as I had been the previous afternoon.

            Though Patill did continue to sneer at me, he did let go of me, giving me a small shove as he did.  
            “You back away from her, you hear me? I don’t care who she fucks, as long as it isn’t you.”

            I felt my brows furrow. “I had no intention of doing that.”

            “Sure.”

            I watched as Tremble slowly shook his head. The young man gently hit Patill’s shoulder, getting his attention before starting to sign at him. As he silently communicated whatever he was thinking, I watched Patill’s face shift from various emotions, ranging from uncertainty to flat denial.

            “You think so?” Patill asked. In response, he got a nod from Tremble, though I noticed the shorter man do a slight shrug of his shoulders at the same time.

            “What did he say?” I asked.

            Patill looked at me and shook the note in his hand. “Well, you keep insisting this is from a dead guy.”

            “Yes? It is.” I paused. “Was. _Was_ from a dead man.”

            “What if he’s…” Patill took a beat to assess my reaction, I suppose. “What if he’s an android? You know, like Mr. Tiller and Mr. Gentry?”

            I stared at the red haired punk in front of me for a long moment. That possibility had never crossed my mind, and yet, though it made sense, I refused to accept it.  
            “No, he’s… It’s him. I _know_ it’s him. It’s Elliot. He’s… He’s _not_ an android.”

            “Look, Doc, dead men don’t just get up and walk around. If you’re telling the truth about having seen him, this is the only explanation that makes sense!”

            I turned my shocked gaze down to the floor, but I was not seeing. My lips and eyes trembled ever so slightly.  
            “But why him, then? Why would he be an android? It doesn’t make sense.”

            “Maybe it does.” Patill thought out loud. “Maybe they have some sort of reason for existing.”

            “He’s alive, Patill. It’s really him, I know it is!”

            Patill and Tremble both frowned at me. They did not believe me, and I had no idea how to convince them, especially since I was now having trouble convincing myself. They were right: Elliot being an android was the only logical explanation for his sudden return. It would explain why he didn’t know my given name. However, if that was the case, how did he know the last thing I had said to the detective before I left him in 2021? How did he know about how Elliot would sometimes scratch at his hairline? My thoughts were conflicted. Half of me was certain that it really was Elliot, but the other half was equally determined that it was an android. There were points that proved both. I could not figure out the truth.

            “Take Len’s phone.”

            The sound of Patill’s voice made me look at him. He gestured to the bed, where I had left the phone.

            “That way you can get in touch with us easier. We’ll find this bastard.” He told me.

            Reluctantly, I picked up Ms. Locklear’s cellphone. I put it into my coat pocket, and as I did, I had a frightening thought that was interrupted by Patill speaking again.

            “I don’t think it’ll do any good to call the cops. They’ll just think we’re all crazy.”

            “Yes.” I murmured.

            “We’ll have to do this ourselves. I’ll question the neighbours.” Patill tilted his head. “Maybe you should go home. You look sick, and besides, if you _are_ telling the truth, maybe Elliot will come back to see you again.”

            I nodded. “Good luck with the neighbours.” I said to him before I stumbled down the stairs. When I left the house and began walking back to my apartment, I started to dwell on the thought I had.

            It was entirely possible that they were right. I could have hallucinated my entire encounter with Elliot. The holes that were slowly developing in my memory did not help to comfort me. I began to question if it was possible that I had done something I could not remember. What if I had lost control, like I had with Autumnwolf, and kidnapped Ms. Locklear myself?

            “That seems too elaborate,” my inner voice assured me, “Surely you would remember at least a snippet of it if that were true.”

            The note was not written in my handwriting. Indeed, it had appeared to be Elliot’s handwriting. However, that fact somehow did not comfort me. How could an android know Elliot’s handwriting? Was it him or not? When I got into my apartment, I closed and locked my door behind me before realizing something.

            I had not unlocked the door. It had been open for me. I found myself looking around, and I began to wonder whether I had locked the door when I left or not. I distinctly remembered locking it before I left, so why was it open?

            “Someone’s here.” My mind determined.

            Thus, it was with caution that I stepped further into my apartment. I could not hear anything out of the ordinary, and nothing was out of place. Perhaps, I thought, I was just paranoid. I probably misremembered, and did not lock the door when I left. Feeling foolish despite my dread, I slipped off my coat and draped it over the couch. When I heard a floorboard creak to my right, I froze.

            “Who is it?” I asked. There was no response, so I turned my head. There was no one there. My heart was pounding in my ears. Then, I felt someone tap my left shoulder. I could feel the blood drain from my face. Though I was delayed in my response, I quickly whipped my head around, and there stood Elliot.

            “Heh, got you.” He quipped.

            That was when I tackled him, pressing him up against the bookcase that he had been standing in front of. The items in the shelving system rattled, and a few books fell over, but I did not care. Elliot’s gloved hands shot up and grabbed mine, which were tugging at the black turtleneck collar of his coat, almost instinctively, and his brown eyes met mine.

            “Not that funny, then?” He asked.

            “You son of a bitch!” I shouted at him. “What have you done to her?!”

            Elliot raised one of his thick eyebrows. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t done anything.”

            “Bullshit! You left a bloody note!”

            The former detective laughed nervously. “Huh? Chesh, you’re freaking me out.”

            I began half-heartedly trying to throttle him. “Just tell me the truth, damn it!”

            “Chesh.” Elliot gently pat my hand, spurring me to begin pounding my fist against his chest. He just stood there, taking my abuse with a small, loving smile on his face.

            “Tell me what you did to her!” I demanded, trying not to look at him.

            “I really have no idea who you’re talking about.” His right hand traced itself down my hair before stopping to stroke my cheek. “Are you alright?”

            “Do I look like I’m alright?”

            “What happened?”

            I avoided the question, instead asking my own. “Are you real?”

            “I wouldn’t be here right now if I wasn’t.”

            “No, I mean—Are you really Elliot Mortensen?”

            “Of course. Who else would I be?”

            I looked up at him and met his eye again. “Indulge me, then.”

            He gave me an affirmative facial expression, smiling and raising his brows for a moment.

            “Where are you from?” I asked.

            “France. Ambérieu-en-Bugey. I lived in Lyon for a while, then moved to New Providence, New Jersey.” He answered.

            “What was your wife’s name?”

            “Emilie. Her maiden name was Laporte.”

            “Where am _I_ from?”

            “Catshill.”

            “What’s my given name?”

            “Mordecai.” He tilted his head. “What’s this all about?”

            I did not say anything. He knew my given name. Why was he not using it, then?  
            “Why aren’t you calling me by my given name?”

            Elliot shrugged. “I’ve always called you ‘Chesh’.”

            I tried to think about something I had never told him about myself.  
            “What was my wife’s name?”

            “Camille.” He answered. “Camille Ibbott.”

            I backed away from him. Elliot had never even known that I had a wife. I think he must have known he had answered correctly to a question that he should not have known the answer to just due to my shocked expression, since he shook his head and laughed.

            “Cheshire, it’s been eight years. I started looking into your past shortly after you left. I know that you were the scientist behind the Eclipse Genocide. I know that you were married, unhappily so. I also know that you had an affair with a man named Oliver. It’s all fine with me. The past is in the past.”

            When he mentioned Oliver, I felt myself pale once more.  
            “How do you know all of this?”

            He smirked at me. “The internet is a vast well of knowledge. Almost everything in history is documented _somewhere_. The hard part is putting all of the pieces together, but I’m a detective. That’s what I do.” He paused before correcting himself. “What I used to do, anyway.”

            “I don’t know if you’re real or not.” I told him.

            “How can I prove to you that I’m really me?” He asked, growing frustrated. “We’ve been away from each other for so long. Times change. _People_ change!”

            “Then how come you haven’t aged a day, huh?” I accused. “You should be what now? Sixty-seven years old? You don’t look a day over forty-five!”

            “Sixty- _six_.” Elliot corrected, but then he thought for a second. “No, wait, yeah, sixty-seven. I forgot that yesterday was my birthday.”

            “Answer the question!”

            “Look, if I fucking knew, I would tell you! I’m a babyface!”

            Too flustered for words, and also rather upset, I raised my hand to roughly slap Elliot across the face, but I was surprised when he caught my wrist with an iron grip. He stared a hole through me, but I could not look away. Then, his rough expression shifted to a gentler one, and he huffed.  
            “Let’s not fight like this.” He said calmly.

            “Just tell me what you did to Lenore…” I pleaded.

            Suddenly, Elliot’s face lit up with recognition and he smiled. “Oh!” He exclaimed. “You meant _her_? God, why didn’t you say so sooner? Yeah, I removed her from the picture. You’re welcome.”

            “What did you do to her?! Where is she?!”

            “She’s out of the way.”

            “I never wanted her ‘out of the way’!”

            “Well, I did.”

            I struggled to free my hand from Elliot’s as I shouted, “You’re acting bloody mad, man! This is insane!”

            Elliot scowled at me, pulling me closer and getting right in my face. “Is it so insane,” he spat, “that I just want it to be you and me again? That I don’t want you to ruin your life being with someone who doesn’t care about you?”

            “And just how do you know she doesn’t care about me?” I hissed.

            “Because I _love_ you, Chesh. I want to make you happy. I want to spend the rest of our lives with you!”

            “Elliot, you’re scaring me!”

            When he went in to kiss me, I turned my head quickly, causing him to pull back and stare at me.

            “Elliot, listen, I—I love you, but… But not like that!” I stammered.

            Elliot was quiet for a beat before he chuckled. However, it was not an amused chuckle. If anything, it was more of an embarrassed and vaguely annoyed chuckle.  
            “What do you mean, ‘not like that’?”

            “What was your relationship with Malachy?” I asked quietly.

            “Cheshire, I’m bearing my fucking soul here! What the fuck do you _mean_ , ‘ _not like that_ ’?!”

            “Tell me your relationship with Malachy!” There was no denying that I was terrified. I was right to be, as the next thing Elliot did was slap me. His smack was hard enough to make me feel as though it almost knocked me out, and I slammed into the couch, falling over it and hitting my head on the floor, just barely missing the coffee table. He grabbed me by the ankle, pulling me back up and knocking the couch over onto its back in the process.

            “Please—”

            “It’s not like I’m asking you to fucking suck my dick or anything—Fuck’s sake! What more do I need to say to you? I love you! That _bitch_ is just after your cock!”

            “I love her!” It was an impulsive thing to say, but deep down, part of me knew it to be true. Even if she was with Patill, somehow I had managed to fall in love with her over the course of just under a week.

            Elliot, absolutely livid, lift me off of my feet, and next thing I knew I had been slammed through the glass coffee table with a loud smash. He then watched me as I groaned and tried to turn over. I knew there were shards of glass in my back that had dug through my shirt. It hurt like hell.

            “Oh, shit.” As if only just coming back to his senses, Elliot dashed around the couch and came to my side. “I’m sorry.” He told me. “Let me help you up.”

            I smacked his hand away. “Tell me.” I insisted through my pain.

            Elliot sighed. “You know my relationship with him. He killed my wife. I despised him.”

            “The truth, Elliot.”

            “That is the truth.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes.”

            “Were you ever anything more with him?” I wanted the glass shards out of my back, but I wanted to find out whether it was actually Elliot I was talking to or not more.

            “God, no. I would never, Chesh. You’re the only man I love.”

            That settled it, then.  
            “Tell me where Lenore is.”

            “I have her in New Providence. Near Lantern Hill.” He admit. “She’ll be dead soon, though. I’ll make sure of that.”

            I knew what I needed to know. “Get out of my apartment.”

            “Let me at least help you up, Chesh.”

            “Don’t you dare call me that!” I screamed at him. “I know you’re not him! Now get the hell out of my bloody apartment!”

            Elliot, or rather the android that was masquerading as him, stood up. “You’re fucking crazy.”

            “Oh, sure, says the one who just put me through a coffee table.” I countered.

            “Believe what you want, then.” He walked to my door, unlocked it and opened it, then turned back and looked at me. “I’ll see you by Lantern Hill, I presume. You’ll be too late, but I know you’ll show.”

            “Go to Hell.”

            “See you then, Mordecai.” He walked away down the hall, leaving me on the floor.

            I really didn’t have my Elliot back. No, instead, I had a fake that was trying to ruin my memories of him. Grieved and enveloped in despair, I simply began to sob on the floor, surrounded by displaced furniture and laying in a puddle of shattered glass. If the android had wanted to make me miserable, he had succeeded.


	37. Chapter 37

            I still had tiny shards of glass stuck in my back when finally I forced myself onto my knees and began crawling toward the couch. Bracing my teeth in pain, I dragged myself around the knocked over piece of furniture to get to my coat. Once there, I reached into the pocket, finding Ms. Locklear’s phone. Despite the glass in my back, I allowed myself to lay against the cushioning. With my teeth, I pulled off one of my gloves, using the uncovered hand then to select Patill’s number from Ms. Locklear’s contact list. The phone rang twice before the punk picked up.

            “Y’ello.” He greeted rather unenthusiastically.

            “Hey.” I panted, though I tried to sound casual. “How did questioning the neighbours go?”

            “Not too well,” he admit, “none of them heard or saw a thing. Are you alright?”

            “Swing by and pick me up, will you? We’ve got a showdown to get to.”

* * *

 

            It was a little over half an hour before Patill and Tremble arrived at my apartment. The door was still open, so they walked up to my door to find me still laying against the couch. Almost equally shocked, they both quickly rushed to my side.

            “What happened to you?” Patill asked in a light, amused voice.

            “Oh, you know, the usual,” I said. “My best friend came back from the dead as an android, told me he loves me, and then put me through my coffee table.”

            “Same old, same old, right?” The red-haired young man quipped.

            “Right.” I agreed in jest.

            Patill laughed, and Tremble smirked. They helped me to sit up, and I felt them start picking the shards out of my back.

            “Man,” murmured Patill, “your blood really is blue. Len was right.”

            “Indeed she was.” I confessed. “Be careful not to cut yourselves. Try not to come into any more contact with my blood than you need to.”

            “Did he tell you where Len was?” Patill asked as he picked glass out of my left shoulder blade.

            “Near Lantern Hill.”

            “Where’s that?”

            “Near the southern border of New Providence.”

            “New Jersey?” Patill stopped picking the glass out of my back and pulled back, looking at me. “But that’s a nine hour drive away!”

            “That’s just it. I don’t know how he got her there so fast.”

            “He must’ve taken her in the night.”

            “We need to take an airplane.” I told him. Tremble pulled a particularly deep shard from my back, causing me to twinge momentarily.

            “How are we supposed to catch a flight at seven thirty at night?”

            I thought for a moment. I really only had one chance. I shook Ms. Locklear’s phone in my hand, then asked, “Can this make long distance calls?”

            “Uh, yeah… I mean, I guess. Her bill’s gonna be wicked high, though.”

            “I’ll reimburse her for her loss. How do I make a call?”

            Patill showed me how to dial a number on the mobile phone, and then I proceeded to tap in a number. I hoped that I still had it correct, as I had only been told it once more or less off-handedly. It rang through, luckily, and I heard a young man ask what I needed in French, then, thankfully, English.

            “Hello. I was just wondering if you could put me through to an Inspector General Simon Callahan?”

            “You mean Commissioner Callahan? I’m sorry, he’s not taking calls at the moment.”

            “Tell him it’s Dr. Cheshire calling for him.”

            There was a pause on the other line, and then a familiar voice, older but still generally youthful to the ears, answered me.  
            “Well, well. If it isn’t Dr. Cheshire.” Callahan chimed. He sounded more serious than I remembered him to sound, but that was probably due to the fact that he had to be about fifty-five years of age by then.

            “Long time no see, Callahan. I hear that you’re a commissioner now.”

            “Yep.”

            “Congratulations.”

            “I don’t feel very special about this promotion.” He confided. “You must need something if you’re calling me after all these years.”

            “Can you arrange an emergency flight from Southfield to New Providence for three people?”

            “’Fraid not.” He told me. “But I can _try_ to pull some strings.” I could only hear his smirk through the phone. I knew that as commissioner of the Lyon-based district of France’s National Police, Callahan was capable of odd yet remarkable things, and he knew as well as I did that he could arrange such a flight with a snap of his fingers if he so desired.

            “We’ll be in Detroit in half an hour.”

            “Happy flying, Dr. Cheshire.”

            When I hung up on the call, I noticed that Patill was nearly gawking at me.

            “Didn’t he want to know _why?_ ” He asked me.

            “Commissioner Callahan is an old friend.” I answered. “He knows when he needs to ask questions, and when to simply trust my judgments.”

* * *

 

            It was eight by the time we arrived at the airport in Detroit, Michigan. Patill had spent the entire drive there worrying that there would be no flight waiting for us, but when we arrived and stepped inside, it wasn’t very long at all before we saw a man in a suit holding a giant board with “Chesh” written on it. In almost no time at all, we were escorted to a business jet that was waiting for us.

            “What the hell?” Patill shouted over the motors as we first caught glimpse of the jet.

            “This is the power of the French National Police.” I shouted back in response. All three of us then clambered onto the jet in single file, and next thing we knew, we were in the air.

            “We’ve got to come up with a plan of attack.” Patill insisted.

            I shook my head. “All we need to figure out is how to quickly get to Lantern Hill from New York.”

            In response, Tremble turned his own cellphone toward me. I tried to figure out what exactly I was looking at, but it was too futuristic for me. Noticing my struggle, Patill glanced at it.

            “Fastest way is to drive. Less than half an hour that way. If we take the bus, it’ll take two hours.”

            “Two hours?” I shot him a look. “Patill, we don’t _have_ two hours. We’re working with borrowed time already as it is!”

            Patill shrugged. “It’s not like he’ll kill her before we even show.”

            “But he might, if he feels we took too long! Bloody hell, he may even kill her the second he gets back to her!”

            Tremble signed something to Patill, who translated for me.  
            “He says that it’s impossible for Mortensen to get there before us at this rate, assuming he didn’t have a flight of his own.”

            I hoped that Tremble was right, but deep down, I highly doubted that was the case.

* * *

 

            Callahan had thought ahead, it seemed, as when we arrived in New York, there was another man with another sign that read “Chesh”. The well-dressed man, who seemed to be our chauffeur, led us to a car, allowing the three of us to sit in the back, behind a glass window.

            “Where to, Doctor?” The man asked.

            “New Providence. Lantern Hill.” I answered.

            “Will do.”

            It was around nine thirty when we finally arrived at the dirt path that led up to Lantern Hill. There was a bend to go around in order to continue, and I was lost in thought until the car turned, and I saw something ahead of us.

            “Stop!” I commanded, and the chauffeur did as he was told.

            Standing about fifty metres ahead of us was Elliot. Behind him were two large construction lights that illuminated him in the dark, but were not strong enough to make him into a silhouette, and kneeling before him was Ms. Locklear. It was hard to tell from there, especially while inside a car, but it seemed like she was gagged.

            “When we get out, drive back to the main road and wait for us there.” I told the driver.

            “If you insist.”

            The two Canaries and I stepped out of the vehicle, and we did not bother to watch it as it drove away. Ms. Locklear was shivering in the cold winter winds, as she was wearing only a black tank top and casual, baggy blue jeans. She was indeed gagged, and the only thing on her that made a sound were the faux dog tags that she wore around her neck, which were clattering in the wind.

            Elliot stared at me with contempt in his eyes. In his left hand, he firmly held a pistol of some kind. The wind pushed his platinum blond hair all over the place, making an absolute mess out of what was only superficially well-maintained to begin with. He blinked only when his hair would strike him in the eye otherwise.

            “How did he get here before us?” Patill, standing to my immediate right, asked in a bewildered breath.

            “He has ways, I’m sure.” I then raised my head a bit, as did I my voice. “Detective.” I called toward Elliot.

            After a pause, Elliot mimicked the tone and volume of my voice. “Doctor.” He hollered back.

            I took a few steps closer, and when Patill started to follow, I put my hand out at my side as a gesture for him to wait.  
            “Can we discuss this, like gentlemen?” I asked Elliot.

            “You had your chance to talk last night, but you didn’t want it.” Elliot retorted.

            “Just put—” As I spoke, he raised his gun, aiming it at me with one hand and placing his other onto Ms. Locklear’s right shoulder, “—the gun down, Elliot.”

            “I don’t want to hurt you, Chesh.” However, as he said this, I watched him pull back the hammer of the gun with his thumb.

            “Then don’t.” I pleaded. “Stop now. You don’t need to do this.”

            “Nah.” The android denied. “I think I’ll just do this, instead.” With a steady arm, he moved his aim to my right. I heard several things all at once as I whipped my head around in what felt like slow motion; Ms. Locklear’s muffled screaming, the explosion of the gun going off, Patill grunting and hitting the dirt, and what could have been the only noise I ever heard Octavius Tremble make. The shot had been aimed at Patill, but Tremble had shoved him out of the way at the last second and taken the hit for him. Patill soon also started to cry out in dismay and concern for his friend, adding to the cries from behind Ms. Locklear’s gag. I looked back at Elliot just in time to see him push Ms. Locklear down onto her side and pull back the hammer of his gun again. He looked pleased, if not simply evil.  
            “Let’s go.” He said. “You and me.”

            “You have a gun.” I retaliated with a shaky voice. “You have an unfair advantage on me.” I needed a new method of approach. “Listen, just… Just hear me out, Elliot!”

            Elliot aimed the gun at me once more.  
           “I’m listening.”

            “You can have me. I’ll go with you, without a fight, if you’d just listen to a few of my conditions.” When Elliot said nothing, I continued. I tried to be discreet in how, as I spoke, I began to take small steps closer to him.  
            “You have to let Ms. Locklear go. Let her and Patill take Mr. Tremble to a hospital.” These words earned what sounded like an attempt to say my name from Ms. Locklear. I refused to look at her. If it meant saving her, I was willing to give my life. Anything, as long as she could keep living and be happy with Patill.

            Elliot scoffed and shook his head at me. “You really don’t understand a thing, do you?” He asked. “I’m a canary in a coal mine. I have a job to do here. You really think that I can let any of you leave?”

            “What is your job?” I inquired, trying to buy myself time.

            “My mission is to kill you, Chesh. You _and_ the Black Canaries, for safety’s sake.”

            “The safety of what? Of who?”

            “The Underwater Railroad.” He answered. I had no idea at that point who The Underwater Railroad even were, but, unbeknownst to me, I was soon to find out.

            “Why?”

            “That’s classified.”

            “Who are you?” I was only a few feet from him now. I had to wonder just how close he would let me get.

            “I’ve told you. I’m Elliot Mortensen.”

            “But Elliot Mortensen died in October of 2027.”

            “Yes.”

            “Well, you must see why there’s a problem there. How could you be Elliot if he died seven or eight years ago?”

            “The Underwater Railroad brought me back, I guess. I don’t know.”

            I was getting close enough for Elliot to have to look down at me a bit. I had to find the precise moment to take the gun from him, but I did not know if there would even be one.  
            “The dead can’t be resurrected.” I told him.

            “And yet still you live.” He countered.

            “Elliot…” I had to act. “Is… Is this _really_ you?”

            “Yes.”

            “God, I… I’m so sorry for pushing you away. What was I supposed to think?”

            Elliot’s hard stare softened. Seeing my brief window, I took my chances, striking his wrist. He dropped the gun, but when I went to grab it, he tackled me to the ground, and we began to wrestle one another, punching and clawing at each other. As we started to roll down an incline, still battling one another fiercely, Patill must have run to Ms. Locklear and begun undoing her restraints, as she began to scream out my name.

            “ _Get to the main road!_ ” I yelled. In protest, Elliot proceeded to wrap his hands around my throat, thrusting me against the ground. I could not breathe.

            “Don’t you get it?! Even if they get away, I’ll find them! _This_ is the _humane way!_ ” He argued madly. Beginning to feel desperate for air, I started to kick my legs, but it did little in terms of making Elliot let go.

            “We have to help him!” I heard Ms. Locklear’s voice. “Chance!”

            Black spots were starting to appear in my vision. I decided to stop fighting, so I merely placed my hands over Elliot’s around my throat.  
            I was okay with this. My life had dragged on long enough. At least the last thing I would hear would be the voice of the girl I had so suddenly fallen in love with, and the last thing I would see would be Elliot’s face. What I found funny were the things that I was worrying about in my last moments; I wondered if I had locked the door, whether I had any dishes to wash, and how Ms. Shan would react when I failed to arrive at work the following Monday. Beyond my silly concerns, however, above all I hoped that Ms. Locklear would be alright. I hoped that Patill would make a decent boyfriend for her, and hopefully even a decent husband. I just wished that I had stood a chance.

            I was only half conscious by the time that Elliot let go of me. In fact, it took me a good few seconds to even realize that he had stood up. I struggled to open my eyes wider, but I was so tired. I was just barely able to see that Elliot had grabbed the pistol, and he was now aiming it at me. I waited and waited for him to shoot me, but he never did. Soon, I was able to see a little clearer, as I was gradually regaining my consciousness, and I discovered that he was quivering somewhat. After a moment, he began chuckling lowly. He lowered the gun and shook his head, looking down at me.

            “I can’t do it.” He said. “I can’t kill you.”

            The faint sound of police sirens approaching filled my ears. Had someone called the cops? Perhaps it had been part of Callahan’s plan.

            “My mission is to kill you, but… I can’t. I care about you too much.”

            “Elliot…”

            “Look, you were right, okay? About Malachy. Of course there was more.” He paused. “I loved that man, despite all his flaws. I don’t know why. I was afraid of him, if anything, but… somehow, I found it in me to love him.”

            I furrowed my brows. I heard the police cars stop, and several car doors opened and slammed shut.

            Elliot continued with his sombre drone. “I loved Emilie, but I didn’t want to hurt her. I wanted to go back and fix it, but they wouldn’t let me. They sent me here instead, to kill you. I could’ve throttled you for leaving me behind, but… I think they overestimated me. _I_ overestimated me.”

            I was too busy staring at Elliot, trying to comprehend what he was saying to me, to look, but I heard a row of officers line up and, presumably, take aim at the man standing over me.  
            “ _Freeze!!_ _Drop the gun!_ ” One of them barked. “ _Put your hands up!_ ”

            “Mordecai…” It was hard to tell, but I swear I saw a tear run down his cheek. His eyes were wild with emotions that I couldn’t even begin to comprehend, but at the same time, they seemed almost lifeless. “I’m sorry.”

            “ _Put your hands up, damn it!!_ ” The officers gave another warning, but Elliot paid them no mind.

            “Elliot—”

            I watched as Elliot raised the gun to his own head. I was powerless to stop him, so I only cried out and shut my eyes. The officers began shouting, a jumbled mess of panicked orders overlapping one another, and then I heard a single gunshot. There was a thud at my feet, and with that, I brought my gloved hands to my face, covering it as I sobbed.

            I had to convince myself that it was not really Elliot. That conclusion left a lot of questions about how he knew the things he had said to me before killing himself, but the only other option was to believe that it really was him, and that option would have destroyed me.

            “Cheshire!” Ms. Locklear’s concerned voice was what made me uncover my face. The police tried to stop her, but she ran to my side regardless, not caring about Elliot’s corpse.  
            “Are you alright?” She demanded to know.

            I shook my head. “Elliot…” I cried.

            “Relax. It wasn’t really him. Look.”

            Reluctantly, I trusted her enough to glance momentarily at Elliot’s body. Sure enough, there was no blood coming out of the wound on his head. It looked like there were even a few tiny shards of fractured metal around where he had landed. It really had not been him. The realization simultaneously soothed me and made me even more confused.

            “Doc, we have to get to the hospital, STAT.” Ms. Locklear told me. “Octavius is bleeding, badly.”

            I looked up at her and nodded. “Let’s go.”

            We had a life to save. There was no use in dwelling on the death of an android. I could mourn later.


	38. Chapter 38

            I was at the hospital, sitting in a chair in the hallway with my head in my hands for God knows how long. Nurses kept asking if I needed assistance and, in turn, trying to coax me to follow them to the waiting room, but I needed no treatment, so I kept ignoring them. I was probably quite rude about it.

            Tremble had been shot in the left lung. I do not know if that was supposed to be some sort of inside joke of Elliot’s, as I did not know from which lung his cancer had originated, but whatever the case, things were not looking good for the young man with the mime makeup. I had not been told whether his lung had collapsed, but I certainly hoped that was not the case. Patill and Ms. Locklear were sitting across from me, but none of us paid any attention to each other, or, for that matter, to anything around us.

            There were footsteps approaching from off to my right. They sounded like the steps of a man wearing dress shoes, but then I realized there were at least two others that sounded the same. Still, I did not look up.

            “Dr. Cheshire?”

            The voice of Simon Callahan was what finally made me glance up. The Commissioner stood there, wearing a black pinstripe suit. He gave me a small smirk with his aged face—he had to be about fifty-five years old now—and I noticed that his hair was growing in grey at the roots. Respectfully, I stood up, and discovered in doing so that he had almost seemed to shrink an inch or so. Behind the man who was still technically younger than myself stood two large men in their early forties—bodyguards, I assumed.  
            “Commissioner Callahan,” I greeted, “I did not expect to see you here.”

            Callahan shrugged. “I had some time to kill,” he replied. He extended his hand for a handshake, which I gave him. His grip was firm, but friendly nonetheless.  
            “It’s good to see you. How long has it been?”

            “About eight years, give or take.” I answered.

            As he examined my face, I watched the Commissioner frown as though he was perplexed.  
            “Never thought I’d say this,” he muttered, “but you’ve aged.”

            “Is it that noticeable?” I worriedly questioned.

            Noticing my worry, Callahan smiled and pat my upper arm.  
            “I’m kidding. Anyway, what did I miss?”

            I was unsure as to how much of the story I should tell him, but I figured that he deserved to know everything. After all, he had pulled quite a few strings in order to help me save Ms. Locklear’s life. With a weary sigh, I began a brief synopsis of the prior two days’ events.  
            “This is going to sound insane.”

            “Trust me, I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”

            “Elliot visited me yesterday.”

            “I take it back.” It seemed Callahan still had his sense of humour.

            “I am telling you the honest truth.” I insisted. “I thought I was imagining things, because he disappeared, but then Ms. Locklear—”

            “—That girl there?”

            “Yes. She went missing. There was a note…”

            Callahan was able to put two and two together, and he finished my sentence.  
            “From Elliot?”

            I nodded. “He came back a few hours ago, to my apartment. He said… some _strange_ things to me.”

            “Like?”

            That much, I decided to keep to myself.  
            “You don’t want to know.”

            “Fair enough…”

            “He admit to kidnapping Ms. Locklear, and he told me where to find her. That was when I called you.”

            “Where is he now?”

            “He’s…” I looked down at the floor, “… probably in the morgue.”

            Callahan seemed vaguely taken aback, but not too surprised. “Well, what happened?”

            “He had Ms. Locklear at gunpoint. It all happened so fast. I lunged at him, we fought, he tried to choke me out… but he couldn’t do it. Instead, he… turned the gun on himself.”

            “Oh.” Callahan turned his eyes to the floor as well. For a long moment, we were both silent. When I finally looked up, I saw that the Commissioner seemed to be pondering something.

            “What is it?”

            He tittered apprehensively before finally meeting my eye.  
            “It’s just… I went back to Elliot’s grave the other day.”

            “Yes?”

            “I dunno, maybe it was just the lighting, but…” He furrowed his brows. “The grass almost looked _different_ above his grave. Like… _newer_ than it was supposed to look, you know?”

            I thought I understood, but I did not.  
            “What do you mean?”

            Callahan waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, it’s nothing. Probably just my imagination, is all. No matter, why are you waiting here?”

            I heard Patill stand up behind me, but I only huffed, not bothering to turn to face him.

            “My best friend is in surgery right now because of you, you French bastard!” The punk roared.

            “That doesn’t even make any sense, Patill.” I told him offhandedly. “You are just accusing him for the sake of accusing someone.”

            “If we hadn’t got there when we did—!”

            “If we had not arrived when he did, your girlfriend would be _dead_ ,” I snapped, glancing over my shoulder at him, “so _shut your mouth_ and _sit down._ ”

            The use of the word “girlfriend” perked Ms. Locklear up from her trance, and she glanced over at me.  
            “Wait, what? Girlfriend?” She asked. “I’m not his girlfriend.”

            “What?” Patill gave her a look that was a mix of shock and betrayal. “We’ve been sleeping together for months!”

            “We’re friends with benefits, Chance, nothing more!” Ms. Locklear argued. “Did you tell him we’re a couple?!”

            “I thought we were!”

            I was honestly at my limit. So, out of stress, I whipped around, facing them.  
            “This is childish!” I shouted at them. “Ms. Locklear, do you love him?”

            “As a friend—”

            “Patill, do you love her?”

            “Well, I—”

            “—Not fast enough, you shouldn’t’ve had to think. There! Settled.” Extending my hands out in a sort of rainbow formation, I declared, “You two can’t bloody stand each other, and are just using each other to satisfy your lust. As a couple, you would fail miserably. Now _sit the Hell down before I smack the both of you._ ”

            Stunned by how impatient and rude I had become all of the sudden, Patill quietly, slowly, took his seat.

            “Are you alright?” Callahan inquired.

            I turned quickly and pointed my finger at him. “Don’t you start with me.”

* * *

 

            Once it was determined that Tremble would survive, I decided to return to Southfield while Ms. Locklear and Patill stayed behind. Callahan gave them his number so that they could have another flight arranged for them when Tremble was ready to leave with them. For a week, I returned to my normal life, despite still feeling somewhat ill. I took a few clients, none of whom were particularly interesting. Another week went by, and suddenly it was February 1st. I had heard no news of the Black Canaries, and no idea if they had made it back safely.

            As the days passed, I began to feel bad about my outburst. I had rarely been so impolite, and honestly, they did not deserve my condescendence. Perhaps I was merely jealous, which on top of my stress from simultaneously getting back and losing again my best friend led me to lash out at the smallest thing. I had wanted a reason to be angry, and they had been the unfortunate people to give me one.

            I was packing up to leave on the 12th when Ms. Shan entered my office.

            “Uh, Doctor,” she mumbled, “you have one last client.”

            “They haven’t made an appointment.” I answered, not even looking at her and simply continuing to sort things on my desk.

            “She said it was urgent.”

            With a heavy sigh, I sat back down.  
            “Fine, let her in.”

            Ms. Shan hurried over to the door to my right, opening it to let in none other than Ms. Locklear. I sat up straighter at the sight of the woman; she looked like an emotional wreck. Ms. Shan then closed the door behind the taller woman before leaving through her own door.

            “Ms. Locklear,” I greeted in a serious voice, “have a seat.”

            Reluctantly, she did as she was told, but she didn’t say anything. I remembered her as being somewhat stand-off-ish by nature, but she sat quite meekly.

            “What happened?” I asked her.

            “You sure left before the party started,” she laughed, though her voice cracked with emotion. “Chance and I got in a huge argument after what you said.”

            Oops.  
            “I apologize.”

            “Needless to say, we’re not friends with benefits anymore. Or even friends, for that matter.”

            “Eek.” This was, for some reason, I all I could manage.

            “Yeah. But, uh, I mean, that’s alright, I guess… If you can’t tell, that’s not why I’m so broken up. I wanted to leave him anyway, but…”

            I was beginning to feel compassion again, an emotion I had not felt in almost three whole weeks, so I leaned forward, placing my elbows down on my desk.  
            “What’s the matter, Ms. Locklear?”

            Her teary brown eyes finally met mine, and she began to cry.  
            “Oct’s dead…!” She sobbed.

            I fell back in my chair.  
            “What…? B—but, he…”

            “They said he’d live, but then complications arose, and…” The lady broke down, bawling into the sleeves of the baggy magenta sweater she was wearing. “I just can’t believe he’s gone…!”

            For a few seconds, I just stared at her in silent shock. Tremble was dead, and she and Patill had split up. I had torn the Black Canaries apart, both directly and indirectly. I was right: I only hurt those I worked with. Now, Ms. Locklear was suffering almost as much as her father had so many years prior… all alone.

            Her eyelids red and puffy, Ms. Locklear finally look up, though not directly at me.  
            “I know you probably don’t care,” she whimpered, “but I needed to talk to _somebody_.”

            “I _do_ care,” I argued gently. “How long ago was this?”

            “Two days ago.” She answered in a low, depressed voice as she wiped at her eyes, trying to be careful not to rub off her smearing eyeliner. “I would’ve told you sooner, but… I was too torn up.”

            “I am so sorry.” I told her.

            Ms. Locklear finally glanced at me, if only to read my expression to see if my words were genuine—apparently satisfied with the honest concern on my face, however, she soon looked down at her lap.  
            “I’ve lost everyone.” She mumbled. “Oct is dead, and Chance wants nothing to do with me. I don’t know what to do.”

            “Look, I…” I sighed. “I know I left. I can’t make up for abandoning you like that, but if you would let me—”

            “Are you _really_ hitting on me?”

            I widened my eyes, flustered. “What? N—no, you—you misunderstand me, Ms. Locklear.”

            “I’m kidding.” She replied, though not with an amused tone. “Sorry, I have this bad habit of awkwardly trying to lighten the mood whenever I’m down.”

            I continued with my proposal.  
            “Ms. Locklear, I would like to help you however I can, if you permit me to do so.” I extended my gloved hand toward her over the table. “You don’t have to be alone.”

            The lady glanced at my hand, then back up at me. She searched my eyes, either to look for any signs of lust or just to see if my love and compassion was not just a ruse, and then she looked back at my hand before reluctantly taking it in hers. I used my thumb to gently rub her delicate knuckles and let out a low, solemn exhale.

            “Hey,” she laughed quietly, “so Valentine’s Day is in two days.”

            “Yes.”

            “Maybe it’s a weird thing to ask… but can we still take a rain check on that dinner you promised me?”

* * *

 

            On the 14th, Ms. Locklear and I were sitting in the restaurant that Ms. Shan introduced me to. The lady had dressed up, though not very formally, as she was too depressed, but she was pretty nonetheless. I, again, cannot recall what we ate there, but as we did, we made small talk. She told me about her interests and her upbringing, and I told her what I was willing to share of mine.

            “Do you like golf?” She asked me jokingly at some point.

            “What’s golf?” I inquired.

            She laughed, which was a pleasant sound to my ears, but I never did find out what she was talking about.

            All in all, it was a pleasant night for the both of us, and after dinner, I offered to walk her home. She permit me, so we began walking back in the direction of her place.

            “I like walking outside at night.” She told me. “The street lights make everything so pretty, don’t you think?”

            “Yes.” I agreed. A tree across the street was illuminated by a street light, making its leaves seem to give off a golden glow. “I have never given it much thought, but I suppose I do prefer it to walking in daylight.”

            “You know what really humbles me, though?”

            “What’s that?”

            “That by the time I’m dead, none of this will probably have changed. These lights, natural or otherwise—they’re all going to outlive me.”

            This was a surprisingly deep, philosophical thing to be coming from her mouth, so I looked at her. She was staring up at the sky in awe, if not a slightly envious pride for the stars that we could hardly see.

            “I mean, those pieces of shit are already dead, but their light is probably going to stay here longer than I am. What kind of bullshit is that?”

            That was more like it. I could not help but smile at her light-hearted bitterness. Almost too soon, we were standing in front of her house. She turned to face me before opening her door, which we stood beside together, and she looked up at me.

            “Thanks for dinner.” The red-haired woman told me as she pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I had a great time tonight, and I really needed that, so thanks.”

            I shook my head lightly. “It was my pleasure.” My voice was low. There was something in the air between us that was only brought further into light by our following silence, during which we only smiled at each other. Slowly, our grins started to fall, until we likely both only had a mask of a smirk on our lips. My eyes scanned hers as they subconsciously glanced once or twice downward before again meeting mine. I had not realized that I was breathing slightly deeper than normal until I noticed she was, too. She blinked twice.

            “Uh…” I tried to speak, but my words were merely whispers of air past my lips. “I…”

            She quietly moaned, “Oh, shut up and kiss me already.”

            I wrapped my arms around her and did as I was told. She returned the embrace and the kiss, and we stood there passionately mashing our faces together. Unlike my first kiss, with Camille, this one felt right. My heart was doing cartwheels in my stomach, but lord, did I ever enjoy it. I could have cried, I was so happy. I felt like I had been waiting for this since first laying my eyes on this beautiful woman—Hell, since the day I was _born_.

            That settled in, then, in my mind. It was not mere infatuation I felt for Ms. Locklear. I was truly in love with her.

            It took exactly two years for me to work up the guts to propose to her. I did it in that same restaurant. When I got down on one knee beside the table, her hands shot to her chest in shock.

            “Oh my God,” she had gasped. “What?”

            “Lenore,” I declared, using her given name for the first time, “I am aware that this may seem forward, as we have known each other for little more than two years. However, two years ago, I first took you on a date here. Of all of the things that I have forgotten over the years, that night has stuck with me, as it was the night that I first realized how completely and utterly in love with you I am.”

            People had begun to stare, and Lenore had covered her mouth with her hands. She was staring down at me, her wide eyes beginning to water.

            “With every passing second, though I did not believe it possible, my love for you grows. I am a chivalrous man, sure, but what I want to do tonight is not something I would do with just anyone.” It was at that point that I grabbed the ring box in my pocket, but still I did not pull it out.  
            “Lenore, nothing in this world would make me happier than if I could spend the rest of our lives together. So, I humbly request that you make me the happiest man in the world,” I showed her the ring at last, “by marrying me.”

            A few people gave an audible, collective, “Aww,” but for a couple of seconds, Lenore just stared. Those seconds were, quite possibly, the scariest seconds of my life, as I considered the multitude of ways in which she could reject me.

            Finally, she pulled her hands away from her mouth. She was beaming from ear to ear.  
            “Yes,” she mumbled, but then she shouted it. “ _Yes!!_ ”

            She hugged me, and I hugged her back, and the restaurant full of people applauded us in congratulations.

            I truly wish that this could be where the story ended: with a “and they lived happily ever after” or whatever.  
            Alas, life is rarely so simple.


	39. Chapter 39

            By October of 2043, I had been married to Lenore for a little over six years. With each passing month, I seemed to be forgetting more and more, and I grew slowly sicker, but I was happy nonetheless… perhaps uncharacteristically so. I was truly in love with the woman I chose to spend the rest of my life with, despite our occasional arguments. Life was grand. She moved into my apartment at first, and shortly after, we bought a house to live in together. Finally, I was living a normal life; living with my wife and still working as a psychiatrist. I felt like I belonged.

            Back in 2040, at some point, cellular phones were phased out for wrist-worn tablet-like devices called DiviQueries. Lenore got one, and repeatedly tried to talk me into getting one for myself, but the whole concept of the DiviQuery was not just lost on me, but also unsettled me; it served to work as not just a mobile phone, but as a virtual wallet of sorts. It could be used for identification, making purchases, and, bloody hell, apparently even for filing taxes. Technological advancements were, in my opinion, making privacy increasingly difficult. I was just lucky that I would likely never need to look for a new job and very rarely needed to show identification, as it was mandatory to use a DiviQuery for that by mid-2042. Luckily, I could still pay for things with cash, as paper money had still not been phased out… but I felt it was a matter of time before everything became so dreadfully digitized.

            On the 12th, the whole of the United States (hell, probably the entire world), was blindsided by some surprising news; someone had made a time machine. The news outlets in Chicago, Milwaukee, and other nearby cities were absolutely losing their goddamned minds, and that’s not even trying to comment on the state of other cities. Even Southfield was taking this news and running with it, even though really all that was known was that a group had revealed it out of the blue, and rather blatantly.

            A group known… only as The Underwater Railroad.

            My wife was ecstatic the second she heard the news, but then there was me, thinking only of what Elliot’s android had told me; he wanted to kill me for the sake of none other than that same group that was now claiming to have completed a functioning bloody time machine. Though I did my best to ignore the news, going so far as to convince Lenore that it was probably some twisted marketing scheme, but something told me that the “normal” phase of my life was going to be rather short-lived…

            Then came Wednesday, the 14th. I was in my office, filling out paperwork about one of my clients, when Lenore walked in.

            “Hey, baby,” she greeted with a smile. She had been dropping by once a month for the past four years, so I wasn’t entirely surprised to see her.

            “Good morning.” I responded to her. “You’re here early.”

            “You know me; sometimes my sleep schedule’s really weird.” She walked past me, standing behind me and rubbing my shoulder lovingly. “How’re you feelin’?”

            “Same as usual,” I answered, “groggy and vaguely nauseous.”

            “Poor baby,” she cooed, beginning to massage my shoulders over my pale lavender dress shirt.

            “Do you want something, or are you just here to molest me?” I retorted playfully. Truth be told, she and I had yet to make love. I was still uncomfortable with the idea, though I knew she was a bit of a nymphomaniac and that six years of being sexually inactive must have been driving her completely and utterly mad.

            “I just wanted to check up on you.” She told me.

            “And?”

            “That’s it.”

            I glanced at her over my shoulder, raising my eyebrows at her in disbelieve. Finally, she caved.

            “I just wanted to know if—”

            However, before Lenore could finish her inquiry, there was a knock on the door. A moment later, Ms. Shan, who was still happily working for me and had even been one of the bridesmaids at my wedding, opened the door and stuck her head in.

            “Oh,” she began when she saw Lenore with her hands on my shoulders, “I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

            “Err, no.” I answered. Over the years, I had begun to notice my voice aging somewhat, and though Lenore assured me that it was barely noticeable, I felt it to be quite the opposite. “What is it, Ms. Shan?”

            “Well, there’s a client here to see you… He says it’s urgent?”

            I occasionally had clients drop by unannounced and without scheduling an appointment with me first. Normally, I would turn such clients away without so much as a second thought, and this time was no exception. “Tell them to call and set up an appointment for tomorrow.”

            Ms. Shan sighed quietly, realizing she would again have to do the dirty deed of rejecting a client on my behalf, but nodded anyway. As she was turning to exit, still holding the doorknob, I heard a young voice, perhaps that of a male child, begin protesting.

            “Wait, please!”

            Unimpressed, I looked at the door as it was pushed open somewhat. Ms. Shan wasn’t forcing the little boy away, since he was keeping his distance somewhat, but the instant I saw him, something happened to me.

            The boy had ghostly pale skin and a rutilant nose, as if he was sort of sickly. His hair was messy and a dirty orange-ish hue. His eyes, large and child-like, were a dark, pale grey-ish brown sort of colour. He looked to be about fifteen years old at most, and he stood at around 1.63 meters. However, nothing of his appearance, not even the blue shirt over his white t-shirt or the red fingerless gloves that ran all the way up past his rolled up sleeves, was what affected me, nor was it his vaguely-feminine voice. I can’t explain why, but something about this child reminded me of Elliot.

            “Please,” he pleaded to me past Ms. Shan, “I was told that you could help me!”

            The instant I saw Ms. Shan open her mouth to speak, I vacantly lift my hand while staring at the young man, and spoke. “I’ve changed my mind. Let him in.”

            Both Ms. Shan and Lenore were surprised by my abrupt change of heart. Frankly, I was as well, but suddenly I wanted—no, perhaps _needed_ —to talk to him. Reluctantly, my secretary let go of the door and stepped further out of the room, allowing the child to enter, which he did timidly. After being allowed inside, he had suddenly become so shy.

            “Have a seat.” I instructed him as I gestured to one of the two chairs in front of my desk. He did as he was told with a certain degree of uncertainty almost painfully obvious to me. If I didn’t know any better, I would have immediately concluded that he had some sort of complex or personality disorder that predisposed him to endless uncertainty. When he didn’t say anything, again most likely due to that uncertainty, I opted to talk first. “What’s your name?”

            “Uh,” he stammered somewhat before speaking, as if not expecting such a question, “Cochryn Alexander.”

            Since I was so much older than him, I felt that calling him “Mr. Alexander” may be too jarring, so I stuck with his first name. “It’s nice to meet you, Cochryn.”

            Cochryn nodded his head, but after a second of silence, nervously replied, “Nice to meet you, too.”

            “I’m Dr. Cheshire. You probably already know that.”

            Cochryn only smiled.

            I decided to get down to business. He had seemed desperate just a minute or so prior. “What brings you here?”

            The boy took a shaky breath. “Two days ago, this man named Flynn D’Amore showed up at my house.” He started. “He insisted on being my guardian, and told me that people were after me. Then, he told me about the time machine.” He looked up at me for confirmation that I knew what he was talking about, so I nodded at him, allowing him to continue as he glanced back down at his hands, which were resting on his lap. “He told me that we needed to destroy it—that bad things would happen if we didn’t.”

            Already, it was starting to sound to me like Mr. D’Amore was the crazy one, despite the fact that perhaps he wasn’t entirely unjust in wanting to destroy such an invention; honestly, I would probably try to do so as well, were it in my ability.

            “I didn’t really believe him at first, but… There’s this guy in a cloak… He’s… He’s been after me for the past two days, trying to kill me, and Flynn’s been protecting me… This morning, an… an android that looked like me tried to kill me!”

            Still standing behind me, Lenore tightened her grip on my shoulders somewhat. When I looked up at her, I saw that even she was engrossed in Cochryn’s words, even though I had expected her to be the more sceptical of us. Perhaps it was the mention of an android, as that was what had set off the alarm bells in my head as well. We had not encountered an android since Tremble’s death!

            “So I finally believed him… But then we found an entrance to The Underwater Railroad’s base, and…” Cochryn trailed off.

            “And?” I spoke as I looked back toward the boy sitting across from me.

            “Flynn was captured! I watched them torture him, but I managed to escape…” He lowered his head. “I couldn’t help him, but I’m really hoping it’s not too late…!”

            “So then, why are you here?” I questioned. “Why come to me?”

            “Before we entered The Underwater Railroad, Flynn told me that if something happened to him, I had to find you here.” He confided. “At first, I had no clue how I was going to get here from Chicago, but there’s a tram down there that was able to take me to Detroit…”

            I still was unclear on why I was so important. There wasn’t anything that I could do to help either of them. “I’m afraid I might not be of any use to you…”

            “He told me that you know someone named Russell Southwell?”

            I frowned. How did he know Southwell?

            Cochryn shook his head. “Apparently they know each other. I don’t know who that guy is, but Flynn said that he really needed to see him in the event of… this.”

            I knew that Lenore had looked at me just by the sound of her long hair falling over her shoulder. “Russell Southwell? You know him?”

            “Do you?” I asked her.

            “He was one of my father’s friends.” She replied. “He told me a lot about him… I assumed he was dead or something.”

            “He is.” I replied, but then I looked at Cochryn and added, “Or, at least, he’s supposed to be.”

            “What does that mean?” Lenore.

            “He faked his death. I’m the only person he gave his contact information to, but that was fifteen years ago…” I felt no reason to keep this secret from either of them; Cochryn didn’t have a use for that information, and neither did Lenore.

            “Please, Flynn told me it was important that he help us…” Cochryn mumbled.

            I paused for a beat, but then reluctantly pulled out my wallet. From a fold that I had not opened since 2027, I pulled out the recipe card that had Southwell’s phone number on it. I had no idea whether or not he would answer if I called. I didn’t even know if he was still alive, or where he was. I had never expected to actually have a use for the number. I glanced at Cochryn. The boy was pouting a bit. This really was his only hope, wasn’t it?

            So, I stood up. Without saying anything, I headed for the door, pocketing my wallet as I did.

            “Where are you going?” Lenore asked.

            “To make a phone call.” I answered. Then, I opened the door and stepped out into the lobby, closing my door behind me. Ms. Shan looked up, but when she saw that it was me who had exited, she promptly stood up.

            “Doctor?”

            “I need to use your phone.” I told her. “Please go keep Lenore and Cochryn company until I’m finished.”

            Though she was clearly confused, if not vaguely concerned, Ms. Shan obediently entered my office through the door to her left.

            For a long moment, I only stared at the phone Ms. Shan used, holding the recipe card up in my right hand. With my left, I blindly reached up to the collar of my dress shirt, reaching down through it and pulling out the key that Southwell had given me in November of 2021. I still had it, and I still hadn’t found a use for it. I held it in my hand, as I was suddenly nervous. Would he even be there to answer my call? Would he find this story to be worth his time?

            “You will never find out if you keep standing around doing nothing,” my inner voice pointed out.

            I picked up the receiver. With shaky fingers, I pressed the keys and dialled the number on the card. It started to ring, and I waited. Twice, it rung. Then, thrice. After the fourth ring, I began to feel the urge to simply give up. However, the fifth ring cut off, and that was what got my attention. I could hear the faint sound of a room’s ambience, but nobody said anything.

            “Hello?” I managed to ask.

            “Why are you calling me?” Though he sounded older, it was indeed Southwell who had answered, which filled me with an admittedly-brief sensation of relief.

            “Have you heard of someone named Flynn D’Amore?”

            My question earned a long, stunned silence from Southwell.

            “I’ll take that as a yes.”

            “I had a feeling this would happen.” He muttered. I wasn’t sure if I was meant to hear that, as immediately after, he quite clearly asked me, “Where should I meet you?”

            I was surprised by his haste. “Um… Would you not like to know _why?_ ”

            “I don’t know why, and I don’t really care. I know what I need to know. _Where?_ ”

            “Would it be too conspicuous to have you come to my office?”

            “I’ll be there. Wait for me.”

            “Don’t you want to know—”—He hung up—“—where… Alright, then.”

            Figuring that was apparently settled, I put down the receiver and put the recipe card back into my wallet. Now it was time to wait.

 

* * *

 

            Russell Southwell arrived within the hour, which was quite a surprise to me. When he entered, I observed that he had to be at least 47 by now. Age had not treated him particularly well, which I had to assume was due to the constant stress of hiding from the government. As he stepped into my office, he removed the red baseball cap he had been wearing and managed to fold it and fit it into one of the pockets of the baggy black sweater he wore. As our eyes met, my forest green with his lime-like, he nodded his head at me in acknowledgment. However, when he caught sight of Cochryn, he seemed puzzled.

            “You’re not Flynn D’Amore, are you?” He asked.

            Cochryn shook his head. “I’m a friend of his… He showed up swearing up and down that he would protect me.”

            Southwell hummed quietly to himself in thought as he scratched at his stubble-coated chin.

            “How did you get here so quickly?” I questioned him. “Were you nearby this whole time?”

            “Oh, no,” he admit, “I’ve been wandering around Ohio, mostly, but I was in Ann Arbor when you called me.”

            “Ah. Do you know what’s going on?”

            “I have an idea.”

            “Really? Because honestly, I am quite puzzled.”

            “You, puzzled?” Southwell managed a small smirk. “That’s new.”

            “Oh, not so much, considering the Crimson Suicide…”

            “Touché.”

            Lenore cleared her throat as a signal that we were getting a tad distracted from the matter at hand.

            “Where is Flynn?” Southwell inquired to Cochryn.

            “At The Underwater Railroad… I can take you to the tram to get there.”

            Southwell looked at me and raised his brows. “That’s all I need.”

            “Now, hold on just a tick,” I laughingly argued, “I’m not going to sit back and let you two do this alone.”

            “Whoa, hey,” Lenore argued, though less amusedly so, “slow down there, Speed Racer. Could we talk for a minute?”

            I knew that she was concerned about my general wellbeing, so I complied. “Southwell, take Cochryn and wait in the lobby. I’ll be right with you.”

            “Sure thing.” With that, Southwell and Cochryn both left Lenore and I in the office. Now that we were alone, I turned to my wife.

            “Lenore.” I said.

            “You’re so ill that some days you can’t even get out of bed.” She pointed out.

            I sighed and began walking around the desk to grab my coat, black and slim with a hood, off of the back of my chair.

            “You’re just going to take off with these two? That’s reckless as shit!”

            “Whatever happened to the reckless you, the one who would understand?” I joked.

            “I keep telling you, Mordecai, you should retire. Even coming here to work is bad for your health.”

            “I’m not going to retire, Lenore.” I told her as I threw on the coat. “That’s what elders do.”

            “Yeah, well, you’re what now? Two-hundred twenty three? I’d say you’re pretty damn old.”

            I whipped around and shot her an offended glare. “I’m not old.” I denied.

            Lenore rolled her eyes. “You sure ain’t no mummy, but physically, you’re going on early forties _at best_.” When I said nothing, she added, “Look, I’m just teasing, alright? I’m just worried about you, dammit!”

            “You don’t have to be worried about me.” I assured her. From the second-lowest drawer on the left-hand side of my desk, I pulled out the gun that Elliot’s android had shot himself with; I had kept it all this time, just in case.

            “What the fuck?” Lenore gasped. “Where did you get that?”

            “You should know;” I replied, “it was aimed at your head a good few times.”

            “That’s… the gun that killed Oct…”

            “I’m hoping I don’t have to use it.” After putting the loaded gun into the back of my jeans, I approached her and placed my hand on her cheek. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

            “In one piece?” She asked coyly as her hand reached up to touch mine.

            “In one piece.” I kissed her on the lips, and with that, I was off. It was time for us to save a complete stranger, and probably destroy a time machine while we were at it.


	40. Chapter 40

            Cochryn led Southwell and I to somewhere in Detroit. I wish I could say that I had much recollection of anything leading up to us boarding the tram, but alas, I do not; in fact, if you placed me in front of the entrance to The Underwater Railroad that he took me too, I would probably not recognize it at all.

            We were on the tram for two hours, during which none of us really said anything, other than Cochryn telling Southwell what he told me. Honestly, we had no idea just what we were about to walk in to (well, maybe Southwell did), but in retrospect, even if I _had_ known, I probably still would have gone along. Perhaps my intentions for going along were not entirely selfless; I needed to prove to myself that I wasn’t useless or hindered by my aging. Everyone kept insisting that I didn’t look that different, but they also seemed to keep teasing me about it.

            I knew I was aging. It was as obvious as the creases that had formed around my mouth—as the crow’s feet that were beginning to appear at the corners of my eyes. However, I still hadn’t figured out why; was it due to the Eclipse Potion? Was there a possibility that it could stop working? I suppose that I had to be impressed that it had kept me ageless and immortal even for 200 years, but somehow, I was made very uncomfortable by the thought that my creation could have an expiry date—that conclusion could also explain why I was so ill. Suddenly, my internal clock was ticking again, and that made me incredibly uneasy.

            “It’s funny that we’re cracking down on The Underwater Railroad.” Southwell said suddenly. I glanced at him as he spoke.

            “Why?” I questioned.

            “I used to work for them.” He admit. “I helped Prof. Bennett find a way to make quantic computing more user-friendly.”

            “Did you know about the time machine?” Cochryn asked.

            “Not as much as you’d think.”

            It was about 11:30 in the morning when the tram finally came to a halt. Cochryn looked first at me, and I did nothing but stare back, so he looked at Southwell, who stood up. That was the gesture we needed to stand ourselves, and I followed directly behind Cochryn, which Southwell behind me, as we left the tram.

            The Underwater Railroad was a futuristic-looking place with steel walls, a white ceiling, and black hexagonal-tiled floors. Similar to the “station” we had just left from, the tram led us out into a metal platform. To our lefts was a computer panel to, in brief, call another tram. As the three of us stepped off, the tram automatically proceeded to take off down the track, though none of us paid it any mind.

            “This is the place…” Cochryn managed to say.

            “Wow…” Southwell looked around in awe. “What a facility…”

            “Haven’t you been here before?” I dismissively snapped.

            “No.” He conceded. “I’ve worked with Prof. Bennett, sure, but I’ve never set foot in their facilities until now.”

            Unimpressed, I crossed my arms over my chest and complained, “Well, it reminds me of Crimson Cove.”

            “Crimson Cove?” Cochryn questioned curiously.

            I shook my head at him. “It’s a long story, never mind it. Let’s just focus on finding your friend.”

            Cochryn either didn’t appreciate being left out of the loop or was made nervous by the prospect of actually getting down to business. “Alright…” He murmured.

            We followed Cochryn down a few hallways, in the process of which we came across a few soldiers that we eliminated with almost too much ease (mainly due to my own impatience), until he brought us to a door with radioactivity signs beside it. Inside, we could hear the faint sound of some really loud device—presumably, the time machine. All three of us shared nervous looks. Were we really ready for whatever awaited us inside? The answer was, without a doubt, this: _probably not._ Still, with no other options, we entered. The room before us was large and barren, but for two men standing in front of a large metal gate. One of the men donned glasses and a hooded cloak, hiding his identity, and the other was an older man (he looked about fifty-six years old) with a black dress shirt and a dark green tie. His greying brown hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and he smiled and clasped his hands in front of his stomach the moment the door slid closed— _and locked_ —behind us.

            “Ah, Cochryn.” The older man began, feigning a warm demeanour. “I see you’ve returned with some guests.”

            Cochryn took a few steps closer, which prompted Southwell and I to follow and stand ahead of him, with him standing to the boy’s right and me to his left. “This is over, Professor!” The orange-haired boy nervously declared. “Just… Just give up!”

            When the older man saw Southwell and I, he seemed vaguely surprised. “Southwell?”

            “Sorry, Bennett.” The former CIA Agent replied, “What I’ve heard suggests that you’ve been taking this too far.”

            Professor Bennett’s eyebrows raised in disbelief at what he was hearing. “Too far?” He asked. “ _This?_ ” Then, he stretched out his arms at his sides and boasted, “Southwell, _this_ is _progress!_ For the betterment of humanity! You know that.”

            “The world isn’t ready for time travel. It’s too reckless,” countered Southwell. “Hell, it will probably _always_ be that way.”

            Bennett didn’t seem to think that way. “But none of you can deny that you wish to change the past. Southwell, wouldn’t you like to go back in time and stop Lyndon from leaving you behind?”

            With a grim look on his face, Southwell shook his head and answered, “Not like this.”

            “What about you?” Bennett turned his attention onto me. “You’re… Dr. Cheshire, right?”

            “Correct.” I replied.

            “You want to go back and stop yourself from leaving that detective, don’t you? Detective Mortensen, was it?”

            I froze momentarily. I didn’t know how he knew that, but I didn’t care for his presumptuous questions. Offended, I snapped back, “Don’t pretend you understand. I said my goodbyes to Elliot Mortensen. Asking for more than that would be selfish.”

            Finally, Bennett turned his gaze onto the boy between us. “Well, then that leaves you, little Cochryn… You want your mother back, don’t you?”

            I watched as Cochryn trembled slightly, but he did not reply.

            Bennett chuffed in mild amusement. “No, I’m wrong.” He observed, then offered, “You want revenge on me for what The Gray Man did to Flynn.” Then, with a certain degree of hesitance, he glanced at the cloaked man beside him, who I could only assume was The Gray Man. “Don’t worry, that’s not impossible, clearly…”

            The Gray Man turned his head toward Bennett ever so slightly, but then turned it back. “Indeed.” He stated in a low voice.

            When the door behind us slid open a second time, I glanced backward. Stepping in was a short, black-haired man who appeared to be almost stereotypically Egyptian (as in, he was wearing ancient-Egyptian-styled clothing), and a tan man with slicked-back brown hair in a nice suit. They both seemed as surprised to see us as we were to see them.

            “Ah,” exclaimed Bennett. “The more the merrier.”

            “What the hell?!” The flustered Egyptian spat. They too stepped forward, taking their stances to our left.

            “Yo, kid, we’ve already called dibs on this time machine!” The Spanish-accented man in the suit complained at Cochryn.

            “Oh…” Suddenly, Professor Bennett sounded somewhat disappointed. “You two are those mafia boys, then? Aten and Videl?” The timing in which they responded to their names indicated to me that the Egyptian was Aten and the Spaniard was Videl. Not that I cared for their names. “I’m afraid you won’t be taking the time machine.”

            “Oh yeah?” Aten hissed. “Says who, old man?”

            “Well, you’ll find out.” Bennett smoothly evaded the question. “We should be courteous and wait for the others.”

            I turned my gaze back onto Bennett in an impatient confusion. “Others?”

            My question was answered by the door behind us again opening. When I looked over, my eyes scanned over an interesting crowd; four pirates stood in the doorway, led by a very old man.

            Bennett welcomed this strange new group with open arms. “If it isn’t my second favourite group of strangers! Come in, come in.”

            “What is this…?” The old man, who was wearing a brown safari hat, muttered. This group stood a little bit back, to our right.

            “Where's the bakeneko and your grandson, Darnell?” Bennett questioned the man.

            With a very limited knowledge of Japanese, I was only able to fully comprehend that the term “bakeneko” was indeed a term relating to cats, and I later discovered the term to refer to cats that could shift into human forms and speak human tongues. Whatever the case, I had no clue what the bloody hell he was talking about.

            “I don't think Andrew will be joining us…” Darnell replied in a solemn drone.

            “Damn.” The professor griped, “I'd wanted to deal with the twins at the same time.” Then, he asked, “And Koizumi Yamada?”

            Darnell slowly shook his head. “Koizumi… isn't coming.”

            “What a shame.” Despite this response, however, Bennett proceeded to put his hand to his ear in a listening gesture. “But wait, is that the pitter-patter of more footsteps I hear?”

            The old man (who was probably an explorer, by the looks of it?) looked back at the door, which prompted the rest of us to do the same. Sure enough, in came yet _another_ group of people: a little girl in a brown coat, a woman with black hair and red streaks, a large man with a moustache, and a teenaged boy with long red hair who wearing a vibrant red coat and clown makeup.

            I was just as confused as you probably are reading this. Judging by Cochryn’s face, I think that he too was completely unaware that so many people would be showing up almost out of the blue. I had been under the impression that it would be only the three of us here, and I figure that he had been as well. Before this group—again as equally surprised to see strangers as the rest of us—even had a chance to speak, Bennett, apparently satisfied at last, clapped his hands.

            “It _is!_ ” He declared. “Oh, how pleasant. Though I worry this might be too much…” He turned toward The Gray Man. “What do you think?” He asked.

            “I don’t think there should be any problems.” The cloaked man assured him.

            “Do I _wanna_ know what kind of crazy shit’s goin’ on here?” The clown, in an accent akin to either New Jersey or Boston—I couldn’t tell which, loudly complained.

            “Probably not…” The moustached man tittered nervously. “Let’s leave instead!”

            As the four new people turned toward the door, The Gray Man spoke up, telling them, “Don’t bother. That door’s locked from the inside unless you know the key to that panel beside it.”

            Growling in frustration, the clown gave in. “Guess we’ve got no choice but to join the crowd, then…!” He and his group took their places behind Aten and Videl.

            In my case, I was also becoming cross. “Oh, this is rubbish.” I griped. “How many more people will you wait for, Professor Bennett? I am afraid I am growing rather _impatient._ ”

            “You’ll be glad to know that I’m not expecting anybody else.” Bennett assured me.

            “Then may we know what's going on?” Darnell asked.

            “I know that most of you are here to destroy the time machine.” Bennett finally began. “Unfortunately for all of you, I cannot allow this device to fall into the hands of anyone who may stand a chance of destroying it.”

            “That opens ya up to a lot of worry, then.” The clown remarked sardonically.

            “Actually,” Bennett replied with an unsettling pleasantness in his tone, “not really. See, the one benefit of having a time machine is that you often get messages from the future.” Saying that, he glanced momentarily at The Gray Man. “As it turns out, my only threats are standing in this very room.”

            “What?” Southwell gasped.

            “With the exception of you, Southwell.” The professor admit. “You may leave with myself and The Gray Man if you wish.”

            Southwell did not seem to take kindly to this mercy. “So I’m not a threat? What makes you think I won’t destroy the time machine?”

            “Because you need it to send Flynn back, for one.” These words were the ones that caught my attention. “Though, you won’t need to make Carmine into Flynn D’Amore if the time machine is never destroyed, will you?”

            I shot Southwell a look. Was that how he knew? Was Flynn D’Amore the result of the artificial intelligence I had heard so little about?

            “Am I the only one who’s completely lost?” The woman with red streaks in her hair asked with a flat voice.

            “You’re not alone, miss.” Videl responded to her.

            “If this ‘Flynn D’Amore’ was of any importance,” snapped Aten, “you’d think we would’ve heard of him.”

            “To be fair, knowing Southwell, I suspect he would have been programmed to be discreet…” Immediately, however, Bennett questioned his own words. “Curious, then, that he would choose to lead Cochryn straight to me.”

            “Programmed?” Cochryn stammered, having not understood Bennett’s meaning yet (could I blame him?). “What are you talking about?”

            “That’s right…” The smirk could be heard in The Gray Man’s voice, despite his face being hidden by his goggles and the neck of his cloak. “You didn’t know, did you?”

            “Arr, what’s all this, then?” One of the pirates, probably their captain, spoke up. “Who’s the chum in the cloak?” However, his questions went ignored.

            “You really didn’t know?” Bennett expressed his surprise at Cochryn’s ignorance. “I’d have thought it was obvious!”

            “Flynn!” The Gray Man barked the name like an order, and very shortly afterward, the metal gate behind him and Bennett opened.

            From behind the gate entered a tall man in a black fedora and a long coat of the same shade. When I saw his face, however, I felt myself jolt somewhat: he looked just like Terrence Lyndon! The man opened his eyes, revealing his lavender eyes that looked so much like those of that poor man I had seen only once. It was true, then: Flynn D’Amore was a creation of Southwell…

            “Everyone, meet Flynn D’Amore…” Bennett declared, “One of the first semi-functioning androids this time has ever known!”

            “ _Android?!_ ” Almost everyone shouted in unison. I, however, did not react, as I was not only already aware of this “plot-twist”, but also because I knew Bennett’s claim of Flynn D’Amore being “one of the first androids” was complete and utter bullshit.

            “Wow.” The Gray Man reacted in a flat voice of his own to the sheer volume of everyone’s collective shock. “I didn’t need to hear, anyway.”

            “Flynn, please state your mission.” Bennett ordered.

            Everyone watched D’Amore closely as he processed this command, but to everyone’s (especially my own) surprise, he almost appeared… conflicted.

            “I… don’t know my mission.” The android admit. “Semi-functioning” was correct; D’Amore seemed considerably less advanced when compared to the androids I had previously encountered. Whereas the others I saw seemed almost human, D’Amore’s emotional capacity was looking to be close to null.

            “Flynn…!” Cochryn shouted. “Whatever they’ve told you, forget all of it!”

            “Negative.” The android firmly responded to Cochryn’s pleas.

            “Come on…! Don’t you remember me…?!”

            “You are Cochryn Alexander. My mission is to…” D’Amore trailed off, apparently unable to figure out exactly what his objective was.

            “To protect me, remember?!”

            For a beat, the android processed this. His response, however, was less than satisfactory. “My mission is to eliminate all present threats to The Underwater Railroad,” he stated, “including Cochryn Alexander.”

            “ _Flynn…!_ ”

            I was appalled, though I could not easily explain why. “Stop this at once!” I shouted, hoping I could get through to the android but not expecting a miracle, “Mr. Alexander does not deserve this kind of disrespect, especially from a friend!”

            “I agree!” Darnell added.

            When The Gray Man began to laugh at us, the clown abruptly shouted, “What are you laughing at?!”

            “Don’t be so eager to defend him.” The cloaked man chuckled. “After all…” Everyone watched as, in almost one fluid movement, the man removed his hood and goggles. The instant I saw his hair, the same colour and shape as Cochryn’s, my heart sank. “You’d be defending your enemy, anyway!”

            _We were looking at the future Cochryn!_


	41. Chapter 41

            A collective gasp filled the room after The Gray Man revealed himself to, in fact, be Cochryn’s future self. Even I was shocked enough to emit a stunned noise. For some reason, it had not occurred to me that the cloaked man was the future form of someone in that very room, much less Cochryn himself. The kid seemed so innocent. What was going to happen to lead to him returning to this moment?

            “I—it’s him… from the future!” The old man with the bakeneko and the striped-hoodie teen blurted.

            “But why would he come back in time just to help kill himself?!” Aten shouted, vocalizing the question that was probably on everybody’s mind.

            “Life is fickle,” answered The Gray Man. “There’s no way for me to come out of today living a normal life. So, I reason, why not end it here?”

            “But if you succeed, then you shouldn’t be here!” This line of logic came from the little girl standing beside the clown. Her statement got me thinking; she was right, wasn’t she? Why was Cochryn’s future self here? There was no way he could possibly be alive to return to kill his future self, which… sort of opened a paradox, didn’t it?

            Of course, The Gray Man had an answer for this. “Quantum Superposition. I’d tell you to look it up when you’re older, but I don’t hold much hope for you making it out of here.”

            “Yes,” added Bennett, “hypothetically, there is a timeline where you all live, and Cochryn works for us to go back in time for this very moment. Unfortunately, this is not that timeline.”

            “What timeline is this, then?!” The clown demanded.

            Bennett replied casually, as if this meant nothing to him: “The one where you all die.”

            “Well, at least he’s honest…” I heard the woman with red streaks in her hair mumble.

            Darnell took a stand. “But if you didn’t want us to destroy the time machine in the first place, then why report it to the press?” This was, honestly, a good question.

            Bennett merely laughed. “Why, to lure you all here, of course! There’s no way out, and there’s no way for any of you to destroy the time machine, so it’s a lose/lose scenario for all of you.”

            “So this was all just a trap?!” One of the pirates, one with black hair, roared in protest.

            “You could say that,” answered The Gray Man in a grim voice.

            I was growing surprisingly nervous. We weren’t really going to die here, were we? There had to be a way out of this. Before I could think of anything to say, however, Bennett began talking again.

            Bennett, almost as if he was as sick of dawdling as I was, again clasped his hands in front of his stomach. “Well, we’ll leave you all to your own devices. Now, Southwell, are you coming or not?”

            Southwell glared at the professor. In a low voice, he told him, “Blumenthal wouldn’t approve of this, you know that, right?” Which was yet another statement that went over my head.

            Whatever the meaning behind that remark, Bennett’s face soured, and he growled back, “Staying it is, then.”

            Just like that, Bennett and The Gray Man made their way past us as everyone stared ahead, reeling from everything that had just happened whether it was understood or not. D’Amore exited back through the metal gate from which he entered, and it closed behind him. As the two antagonists left, one last person  _entered_ the room: a teenaged boy in a striped sweater. On his cheek was a streak of blood that did not appear to be his own, and he looked as though he had been crying. In my head, I assumed him to be Andrew, the boy that Darnell and Bennett had mentioned to each other earlier. Andrew bumped shoulders with The Gray Man, who shot him a harsh look, but he did not care. He merely took his place, a few steps in front of Darnell (something in my gut told me the old man was a relative of his, perhaps his grandfather?) For a few beats, all was silent other than the sound of the time machine loudly working a room or two over, behind the metal gate.

            As I tried to disregard the meaningless nonsense I had just been company to, I was left with only one point to digest; we were locked in here. Our only option was to destroy the time machine, but if we tried, that android would get in the way, and would probably kill us without a second thought. We were trapped. There had to be a way out, right?

            “Unlikely,” my inner voice uselessly answered.

            It was silly, perhaps: this entire situation… and yet, still, I could not ignore the flutter of fear in my chest—a fear that I might not be able to return to Lenore after this, that maybe I might die here, in this room or the next, surrounded by at least fifteen strangers. I was not alone in my fear, however: it seemed everyone else shared it as well.

            “This is ridiculous!” Aten exclaimed. “Are we really going to die _here?!_ ”

            “I can’t believe it…” Cochryn whimpered.

            “It’s all over…!” Darnell declared in woe.

            However, amidst all of the terror in the room, out came one grimly serious voice: Andrew’s.

            “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he insisted with a firm tone.

            At our own leisures, each of us turned to look at him. Somehow, this teenager was either braver or more reckless than everyone else in the room, probably including myself. Frankly, I was impressed by his stoicism.

            “What…?” Darnell, too, was confused. It appeared as though he did not think that his grandson would be the hero of the situation. In fact, he was probably the most astonished out of everyone in the room.

            “I swore I would destroy that damned time machine.” Andrew asserted. “I won’t let anything stop me.”

            Aten, who up until that moment seemed disgusted by the mere sight of the teen in the striped sweater, abruptly chimed, “I never thought I’d say this, but I think I agree with you for once, boy.”

            Videl looked down at his shorter companion, appalled by the sudden respect given by the Egyptian. “Aten?”

            Aten replied, “After that rude ‘conversation’, I want to destroy that thing, if only just to spite him!”

            “I can’t get behind _that_ motive!” Andy agreed.

            “Well, let’s team up!” The moustached man whose name I still did not know put forward with a newfound sense of optimism. “Together, I’m sure we could take that android on, right?!”

            “B—but he’s my friend…!” Cochryn argued. The young boy looked up at me for support, but I was again cut off before I could think of a suitable response.

            “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, kid,” stated the red-streaked woman, “but it seems you ‘friend’ wants you dead now.”

            Cochryn’s shoulders sunk and he lowered his head in defeat. It was painful for me to be unable to help him, but there really was no other choice; Flynn D’Amore had to be destroyed if we were to stand any chance of getting out of those rooms alive. I just hoped that this course of action was not the one that would lead him to return to this time as The Gray Man.

            “Well, are we doing this or what?” Andrew demanded. “Everyone, get into groups of three. Let’s do this.”

            I crouched a bit to look down at Cochryn as others around us began walking around to form groups. Southwell stayed by us. He didn’t seem to have any intent to join a specific group, rather preferring to go solo, as I had suspected had been his way since he faked his death.

            Cochryn was sniffling, but I am unsure still as to whether it was because he was sick or because he was crying. Whatever the case, I gently placed my hand onto his back. Something about him was still reminding me of Elliot. It was hard to explain.

            I was still comforting the orange-haired boy when Andrew approached us. “Hey.” He said to Cochryn.

            Cochryn turned around and looked up at him. “Uh, hey…” He replied. Clearly, he was surprised that Andrew was talking to him at all. Perhaps they knew each other?

            “Your name’s Cochryn, right?”

            “Yeah…”

            The teenager, who seemed somewhat aggressive by nature, frowned and crossed his arms. “Look, I know this is probably pretty rough on you, but… Do you want to help me out?”

            “With stopping Flynn?” Cochryn vacantly questioned, depressed since he already knew that the answer was yes.

            “With _saving the world_.” Andrew reworded the statement firmly, though I could tell he did it less to be rude and more to prove to Cochryn that this was the right thing to do. I admired this about the teen, but I did not express this.

            Cochryn considered Andrew’s words with an uneasy exhale. Finally, he nodded, which earned a small smirk from Andrew, and he responded, “Yes. I’ll… I’ll help the best I can.”

            “I will help as well.” I offered, unwilling to let Cochryn do this without my support. Andrew glanced up at me with a serious expression, and he nodded his head in acceptance.

            “Sure.” He responded. “Let’s do this.”

            Before we knew it, everyone had grouped up to their own satisfaction, though not everyone had followed the “group of three” rule. After working up the courage, Andrew, Cochryn, and I were the first three to enter the metal gate. This led us to an equipment room of some sort, and everyone was surprised to see a generic-looking middle aged man sitting behind a plate of glass. He had a cash register. “What???” was my only thought.

            “Hey, wait a minute…” Despite also being very confused by the mere sight of a clerk here, Andrew only remarked, “Aren’t you the same clerk as before?”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The clerk responded sharply.

            “Are you sure…?” Andrew shrugged it off. “Oh, whatever…”

            The clerk then proceeded to offer him things that would be useful if probably could have been useful were we not in real life, such as pain medication. To this day, I am still unsure of what to make of this. Once done with that, everyone made their way into the room that the store room connected to. There was a huge machine in this room that was _very_ loud, to the point where we would probably have to be nearly shouting to have a chance of being heard over it. About a foot in front of the machine stood D’Amore, who had probably been patiently waiting for the entire duration of our gathering. With Andrew and Cochryn in front of me, we had formed the middle isle between the two mix-matched groups of people to our sides.

            “Is that the time machine…?” Andrew inquired about the machine behind the android. It was safe to assume that his assumption was correct, considering the circular pad behind D’Amore that did not seem to currently be active. I had to wonder if we could somehow find a way to teleport D’Amore to the future so as to safely destroy the time machine, but with no simple controls in eyeshot, I figured that would be a pipe dream.

            “No good,” observed Darnell from a little ways behind us, “it’s being defended by the android!”

            “Flynn, listen to me, please! Don’t do this!” Cochryn started begging again. “You wanted me to destroy this thing, don’t you remember?!”

            D’Amore blinked. “I cannot allow any of you to touch this machine.”

            Southwell, to Cochryn’s immediate right, stood up straighter. “Carmine.” He asserted. When D’Amore silently glanced at him, it was clear that a few of us, Southwell and I included, were filled with what was possibly a false sliver of hope. “You still respond to that name, right?” The former agent continued. “Surely I wouldn’t have coded you without a backup.” Then, he raised his head a bit more, and, asserting his dominance, he commanded, “Carmine, abort your current objective.”

            D’Amore reacted less than pleasantly. “Permission denied.”

            “Do you know who I am?” Southwell questioned. “I created you. I gave you your first mission.” Becoming a bit more insistent now, he shouted, “I am the admin here, and I command you to disobey whatever orders you’ve been given that were not issued by me!”

            “Negative.” D’Amore retaliated. As he continued, he almost seemed impatient. “My orders were given by Cochryn Alexander. My mission statement _requires_ me to _obey_ Cochryn Alexander.”

            Finally, Southwell simply ordered, “Abort the mission!”

            “I _cannot!_ ” D’Amore stressed.

            “Shit, I must’ve proofed him from being talked out of protecting Cochryn…!” Southwell panicked. If that was the case, I figured, that would mean that there was no way to settle this without a fight. That was fine by me.

            “This is ridiculous.” I huffed. “I’ll put an end to this right now!” From the back of my jeans, I pulled out the handgun that I had taken with me. I was glad I had thought to bring it along as a precaution. “A little 10mm should do the trick!” As I stepped aside and took aim, hoping I knew how to use a gun as much as I thought I did, Cochryn whipped around to face me.

            “Wait, no!” He pleaded.

            I was not listening. I had to do this. So, I pulled the trigger. However, D’Amore merely lift his hand with lightning fast reflexes, and with his palm, he managed to _stop the bullet!_

“Waah,” cried the moustached man, “he— _he deflected it with his hand!_ ”

            “It took some skin off of the palm of his hand…!” Andrew observed. “It’s metal!”

            Indeed, I witnessed the metal framing that formed the tendons and muscles of D’Amore’s hand. What his skin was made of and what metal his frame was formed from did not occur to me. All that mattered was taking him down.

            “Don’t do that again.” The android warned me.

            “I’ve dealt with your kind before.” I spat back at him. “If you’re anything like those other androids sent back to harass me, a headshot should do you in quite nicely!”

            I fired again. I hit his head, of that much I am aware, but… this time, my shot did… nothing. D’Amore merely… flinched. He took the gunshot like a champ, and this time, I didn’t even break any skin. Suddenly, my blood ran cold. This would not be as easy as I thought, would it? Had I just antagonized a foe that I could not harm?

            “Wh—what…?” I stumbled on my words nervously. I was screwed, wasn’t it?

            “It left hardly even a scratch…!” Darnell gasped.

            “His frame must be made of titanium!” Southwell realized, though this discovery seemed to make him utterly terrified of what was to come.

            “Well, what can get through titanium?!” Andy screeched.

            “Nothing less than .50 cal, I can tell you _that_ much!” Aten replied.

            “I don’t even think .50 _BMGs_ would do anything but dent him!” Southwell concluded.

            D’Amore merely stood, waiting until everyone stopped talking, at which point he glared directly at me (which, needless to say, shook me to the core, as I was actually able to see the growing fury in his otherwise-lifeless lavender eyes) and told me, “If you fire one more bullet at me, I will crush your larynx with the same ease as a hollow rubber tube.”

            I gulped.

            “I don’t doubt it…!” Andrew stuttered out exactly what I was thinking.

            This time, it was Andrew’s brother who took the initiative. With determination in his voice, Andy exclaimed, “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m not leaving! Even if he _is_ made of titanium, there’s almost twenty of us, and only one of him!”

            “I can’t argue with that…” Videl, although clearly reluctant, agreed with him.

            “You wish to fight me, then?” D’Amore inquired firmly. He looked past Andrew, at Cochryn, who was trembling in fear.

            “You’re not leaving me with any other choice…!” The boy answered culpably.

            In response, D’Amore narrowed his eyes. “So be it,” he stated.

            It was time for us to fight for our lives.


	42. Chapter 42

            The fight with D’Amore started rather abruptly, with him charging at us. Cochryn shrieked almost immediately, deciding to rush out of the way, and Andrew threw himself out of the line of his charge, leaving me as the only obstacle in his path. I would have moved, but I was frozen, perhaps in fear. However, luckily (?) for me, D’Amore’s body check was relatively gentle… and by relatively, I mean that it didn’t send me _through_ the gate that I was thrust backwards into.

            I could not gauge how everyone initially reacted to the attack placed upon me, since I was fighting to even remain conscious, but when I fully came back to my senses, I saw a _huge_ brawl going on, fourteen-to-one—yet, despite these numbers, D’Amore was actually _winning_ , and with flying colours. I saw that someone else had already been downed, finding that to be Darnell, which was no surprise to me since he looked to be in his late seventies at _least_. At that particular moment, D’Amore was holding Andy up by the throat, and Mali was hitting at his leg.

            Rather than observe, I decided to get up. Once standing, I rushed over and tried to kick the android in the stomach, but that proved counter-productive, as I only wound up hurting my leg. So, I limped back and aimed my gun at him. Knowing what I was planning, however, he swiftly turned himself, using Andy as a shield. This movement, however, gave Andrew, who was wielding a hammer that I assumed he had been keeping in the pocket of his hoodie, the opportunity to leap up and slam his weapon down against the back of D’Amore’s head; unlike everything else, this seemed to stun D’Amore if anything, and he released Andy. The clown crumpled to the floor, so I fired off two more shots into the android’s abdomen. He stumbled backwards, but it was far from enough to down him.

            Then, D’Amore suddenly turned his attention onto Cochryn, who was the only one not currently slapping at him. “Cochryn,” he spoke the name in a slightly-broken, robotic voice. The young boy tensed up when he heard his name. It was at that point that I noticed his weapon; a… yo-yo.

            I mean, it was cute, sure, but hardly effective.

            As D’Amore—with Andy actually leaping onto his back to start hitting him like a child—marched closer to Cochryn, the boy flinched. He whipped his yo-yo at D’Amore, who, unsurprisingly, merely caught it in his hand, ripping it away from Cochryn so hard that he actually pulled the boy closer to him by the finger that the string was wrapped around.

            “Hey!” I did my best to roar at the android, “Focus on your _real_ threats, first!”

            However, it was no use; D’Amore seemed to have re-established just what his goal was, and that was to, first and foremost, take care of Cochryn… in both senses, apparently. His conflict did prevent him from _immediately_ killing the boy, though, which allowed the rest of us time to stop him. All of us grabbed him from different angles, and as we started tugging to pull him away from Cochryn, we discovered one thing: while he was remarkably difficult to knock over and at least a thousand pounds, if we all pulled together, we could quite easily tug D’Amore wherever we liked.

            “Can we throw him?!” Andy choked as he struggled to hold down D’Amore’s left arm.

            “Can we _what?!_ ” Retaliated a few of us, including myself.

            “Come on,” Andrew apparently agreed with the clown that looked remarkably similar to him, “we can do it! Toss him into the time machine!”

            Despite not being sure if he could essentially whip something that weighed about as much as a bloody grizzly bear, we decided to give this stupid idea a shot. Surprisingly, it… actually worked. We all nearly wound up wounding ourselves in the process, but we somehow managed to toss D’Amore away, and he flew away from us, slamming into the middle section of the time machine. Sparks flew, and the loud noise we heard from the machine grew violently louder, and then suddenly the sound dwindled down into nothing, and then the power went out. In half a second, we were suddenly plunged into darkness, the only light coming from the sparks, but those disappeared shortly after the power failed.

            For a few seconds, we were all quiet, just trying to catch our breath. Adrenaline had really saved our behinds there, but I knew that I would feel incredibly sore come tomorrow morning.

            “I—it’s so dark!” Cochryn was the first person to speak. It almost seemed like he was afraid of the dark, which was yet another thing that reminded me of Elliot.

            “Here,” Andrew replied, as I could hear him stumbling about in the dark trying to find Cochryn, “you can borrow my DiviQuery. It’ll work as a flashlight!”

            After a few seconds, a light came on, revealing Andrew standing close to Cochryn. Over his glove, on his left wrist, Cochryn had on the DiviQuery that gave off the glow and everyone sort of inched closer to instinctively. Navigating in the dark, these two stepped closer to the time machine—unconscious and lying in the space between the time machine and its pad was D’Amore, face down.

            “ _Flynn…!_ ” Cochryn cried.

            “It seems the shock must have finished him off…” I observed.

            Openly, Andy asked, “Does this mean the time machine’s destroyed?” As he posed this question, he turned on his own DiviQuery, and a few others joined him, creating some more beacons of light in the dark.

            Southwell responded, “Given that the power went out, I’d assume so…”

            “Well, that’s done…” Andrew. “Now we’ve just got to find a way out in the dark.”

            I followed Andrew and Cochryn as they headed for the gate to leave while everybody else waited for the door to open before they would come forward. However, when Cochryn was first to get to the door, he could not seem to get it open. Andrew tried to help him, but neither of them could do it.

            “Shit,” Andrew exclaimed, “it must’ve locked automatically when the power failed!”

            This was bad. We were all trapped in the dark now. How would we escape?

            “There’s another way out…”

            Everyone whipped around when we heard D’Amore’s voice. Sure enough, the android was now standing.

            “He’s not dead?!” Aten shouted.

            D’Amore was wobbling somewhat. The shock had indeed done a number on his ability to function, but he no longer seemed hostile. “There’s… another away… out.” He repeated. “Over here…”

            Cochryn pushed past me. “Flynn, don’t push yourself…!” He pleaded.

            “Fine…” Andrew gave in, albeit cautiously. “Show us.”

            D’Amore started to walk off to the far right corner of the room. Hesitantly, we all followed him to a large screen. He looked at it, and without taking his eyes off of it, told us, “This screen is double-sided. There is a room behind it.” Then, he raised his fist, and with ease, he punched a hole through the screen, ripping out wires and knocking out shards of glass onto the floor. Sure enough, though it was hard to see in the dark, there did appear to be something on the other side; more tunnels like the ones I vaguely remembered leading to the entrance in Detroit, with walls made mostly of secure, tightly-packed dirt.

            “Are you okay now?” Cochryn asked.

            “I wouldn’t say that.” D’Amore replied. He almost sounded ashamed. “Stay away from me, Cochryn.”

            “I don’t get it.” Andrew argued. “Why help us?”

            D’Amore turned and looked at us. Somewhat disoriented, but still honest, he gave this answer: “Eliminated you… is not my mission. I must… focus on my mission. Take me to The Gray Man. I will end this… once and for all.”

            That was a good enough answer for me, and apparently it was the same for everybody else. Next thing I knew, we were all helping each other through the screen, being careful not to get cut. While the screen was “large”, it was something we mostly had to slide through horizontally, so some of us wound up with small cuts merely from landing down on the glass that had landed on the other side. Soon, everyone was out of the time machine’s room and in the start of the tunnels. We agreed to stick together, though Andrew, Cochryn, myself, and Flynn wound up taking the lead in that respective order.

            The tunnels were a bit of a maze, but we ended up going as far forward as we could, until we came to a flat wall. Looking right returned a gaze into the abyss, but when we glanced left, we saw it: a light! Was it possible that we had found an exit?

            “Guys, over there!” Andrew shouted back to everybody else. “There’s a light!”

            We all ran ahead, leaving the others in the tunnels (they weren’t too far behind, thankfully), to discover our ticket of escape.

            “A ladder…!” Cochryn remarked, relieved. “It looks like it leads to the surface!”

            “Let’s climb up before anyone else comes after us.” I said. However, my words came a bit too late, as they were promptly followed by an ear-piercing gunshot that echoed down the halls. With a thud, something hit D’Amore’s left shoulder, and he stumbled forward as sparks flew for the second time. The android emit a surprised grunt of what could have been pain.

            “Jesus Christ!!” Andrew shouted, his hands having shot up to his ears merely by instinct, as mine had.

            We watched as D’Amore shakily grabbed onto his left arm, which hung loosely by his side. His face was contorted in agony, despite the fact that we had been under the impression that he could not actually _feel_ anything. “Gh… My… My left arm is… no longer functioning…”

            Another gunshot rung down the tunnel, and with another pained noise, D’Amore was thrown back, further into the darkness. Andrew grabbed Cochryn, and the three of us dashed into the little nook formed by the passage to the ladder.

            “ _Flynn!_ ” Cochryn screamed, deeply concerned for his friend. I couldn’t blame him. My heart was pounding in my ears. Whatever gun had made that sound, it was something _very_ high calibre.

            There were a few seconds of silence, during which the three of us timidly poked out heads out of our cover. Taking his place a foot or two away from us, directly in the middle of the passage, was The Gray Man.

            “I was using an Anzio 20mm from all the way down the passage.” He revealed. “The light from the DiviQuery gave me just the right amount of light to take the shot. I knew that nothing short of 20mm would hurt you.”

            “Flynn…!” Cochryn continued to cry.

            “Yeah, spoiler alert, kid: in fifteen years, it’ll be _you_ here, pulling the trigger.”

            To our right, D’Amore just barely managed to get back onto his feet. His left arm lay, severed, on the ground a few paces from our nook, and his hat had fallen off, though he paid it no mind. While both of his eyes had initially been ever-so-faintly glowing in the dark, his left eye was now dimmed, and I could just barely make out the cracks on his face that made him look almost porcelain.

            “I have… lost the use of my left eye… as well…” The android struggled to speak.

            The Gray Man’s smirk could be heard even in his voice alone as he cooed, “Seems you’re running out of strength, Flynn. Just give up and shut down. Don’t make me drag your death out.”

            Suddenly, Cochryn tore himself from Andrew’s hold, stepping out into the passage. “No,” he shouted, “don’t you _dare_ hurt him!!”

            “If you want to stop me, it’s going to take more than vague threats!” The Gray Man retaliated.

            “Fine!” Cochryn countered, surprisingly brave for once. “I don’t usually say this, but _if you want a fight, come and get it!_ ”

            The Gray Man turned to face us. From the right side of the belt around his waist, he pulled out a knife. “Don’t think you stand a _chance_ against me!” He snarled at us.

            While the fight with D’Amore was a hassle due to his strength, the fight against The Gray Man hardly took as much energy and is not even worth writing that much about, mainly due to one big factor: The Gray Man was human. Also, he was shorter than me, and though I wasn’t too strong myself, even I could easily overpower him. He tried to give a fair physical fight, but after the three of us (Cochryn included, as he actually dealt a few blows to himself) had sufficiently pummelled him, he stepped back. Panting, he reached up and used his dark gloves to wipe the blood from his broken nose off of his face. Honestly, were it not for the fact that even he gave off some sort of Elliot-like air, I would have found him to be rather pathetic.

            Once he managed to catch his breath, with an intense expression, The Gray Man looked at us in hatred. “I’m not done yet…!” From a holster on his chest, he pulled out a handgun. Before we could react, he aimed at Andrew, and we all gasped, but… he didn’t fire. None of us even moved. He just… quivered. Slowly, his brows furrowed, until he lowered the gun. “Damn…” He grumbled, “I just can’t do it…”

            “Wh—what…?” Andrew, if the rest of us weren’t, was surprised that he had been spared, as we probably all expected him to be dead right about now, considering The Gray Man had supposedly killed him before.

            “Cochryn…” D’Amore spoke abruptly. “Forgive me for this.” We all watched him as he dashed forward. Before The Gray Man could even react, he pulled another knife off of the defeated assassin’s waistband.

            “Huh—?!”

            Just like that, D’Amore stabbed the knife into The Gray Man’s chest like it was nothing. My eyes widened as I watched this; I had been hoping that we could find a peaceful way to settle this, but then again, if D’Amore had been ordered to kill Cochryn, I figured that him killing the future version of him was better than him killing the younger, innocent one.

            The android released the knife, allowing the man from the future to stumble backward, clawing up at his chest lethargically as his energy rapidly drained. The human looked up to the machine that had, at one point in his past, been his closest friend, and his final words to him were merely: “Gh… y—… you…” Then, he crumpled to the ground a few clumsy paces away from D’Amore.

            “F—Flynn,” Cochryn praised, proud despite the fact that he just witnessed his own possible death, “you did it…!”

            “I failed my mission…” D’Amore grieved, but then he smiled a little bit, concluding, “but… maybe… that was good…?” With that, he tipped over, collapsing in front of The Gray Man’s corpse.

            “Flynn!” Before we could stop him, not that we wanted to, Cochryn rushed to D’Amore’s side, kneeling beside him. “Flynn…!” When the android wouldn’t respond, he began to desperately shove him a bit. “Flynn, what’s wrong…?! Come on, get up…!”

            “I’ve… failed my mission…” D’Amore griped.

            When I thought about it later on, I realized that he was probably correct. From what I had heard, his mission was to protect Cochryn, and yet he had just murdered him. Despite the fact that Cochryn’s past self was still alive, D’Amore had still killed the person he was created to protect. As an android, I assume that he was unable to comprehend the difference—age and time travel did not play into the fact that he had, in fact, just killed Cochryn Alexander.

            “Y—you haven’t failed anything!” Cochryn cried, trying to reason with D’Amore. He must not have known this was a lost cause, but even if he did, I doubt that it would have stopped him from trying. “I’m right here, see? I’m _fine…!_ ”

            That was when the supposedly-unfeeling android began to say things that surprised me. “Cochryn… Thank you…”

            “For… for what…?” The boy asked. “I did this to you…!”

            “You were my reason for existing… and… I’m glad that I… got to meet you…”

            Tears were now streaming down Cochryn’s face, and he lowered his head. “ _Flynn…_ ” He sobbed the name on a breath, already mourning. We all knew what was coming: D’Amore was about to crash… likely permanently. As I watched this—this final conversation between a human and an android that had learned of emotion from his desire to protect him—, I felt a great weight come crushing down on my chest. I would never be able to save everybody, would I?

            “I shouldn’t be able to feel anything…” The android continued, “But somehow, I… felt for you. Thank you for that, Cochryn… Forgive me.”

            “ _I forgive you… Please don’t leave me!_ ”

            I witnessed the awkward smile that spread across D’Amore’s face, and I was surprised by how truly genuine it looked. He was accepting his fate like it was punishment for his misdeed—for failing his mission, not just by killing Cochryn’s future self, but by not being able to protect his _present_ self. It was written all over his guilty grin that he fully comprehended that in a strange, roundabout way, he had not failed his task, and that he was crashing over a stupid misconception of time. For the first time, he felt and looked almost completely human.

            “I suppose… I am… finally ‘tired’…” He managed to say in a voice that was, if anything, vaguely pleased. “Will you… tell me goodnight… the same way as usual…?”

            “G—” Cochryn suddenly stopped, and I knew why.

            _He knew that this was the end._

            It was a feeling that I had also experienced, in my final moments with Elliot, and it was the same damned word: “ _goodnight._ ” I did not want to say it. Saying it would have been sealing his fate! Thus, I completely understood his pause, and honestly, it may have brought a tear to my eye.

            “ _Goodnight, Flynn…_ ”

            Content with this, and still beaming that same smile, Flynn slowly laid his head down, and as he did, his glowing right eye dimmed. With that, he stopped moving altogether.

            With his head down, Cochryn quietly ended, “ _Goodbye…_ ”

            Beside me, Andrew, whose reaction I had not been paying attention to, turned his head away from the scene. I heard him, under his breath, mumble, “Jesus…” It sounded like even he was near tears, and he probably knew less of D’Amore than I did.

            It took us a few minutes to get Cochryn back to his feet, but when we did, everyone managed to climb up to the surface. This lead us to a large metal square (luckily large enough for sixteen people to comfortably stand upon it without being too close in each other’s physical space) that was floating atop Lake Michigan. Frankly, we seemed to be stuck there, unless we swam to another nearby platform, which seemed to be the main entrance. There was also a dock, beside which was a pirate ship.

            Honestly, I cannot say that I was surprised. It would explain the pirates, but how they got their ship onto Lake Michigan will forever remain a mystery that I wish not to solve.

            Upon coaxing from Andy, who was eager just to get the hell out of Dodge, we all took the risk of trying to swim to the dock. Luckily, nobody died, but the water was freezing, so by the time we were all aboard the ship, it felt like we were going to die from hypothermia. I stayed off to the rightmost side of the ship, near the plank—yes, they had a metal plank on the side of their ship. If the water weren’t so cold, I might have been tempted to walk out onto it at some point.

            “Remind me never to take advice from a guy dressed as a clown again…!” Andrew spat as he shivered, rubbing the drenched sleeves of his hoodie in a pathetic attempt to warm himself.

            “I’m f—freezing…!” Mali added.

            “At this rate, I’ll get sick again…” To complete this comment, suitably, Cochryn just happened to sneeze.

            “Arr, quit yer blubberin’, all of ye!” The pirate captain, whose name I later discovered was One-Eyed Oliver, demanded. “Ye aren’t the ones wearin’ a cape!” He had a point, as he lift his red cape to reveal that it was quite heavy, and was dripping water like a faucet. If it were to be rung out, the water his cape had absorbed could probably have filled an entire bucket. Then, firmly, he asked, “Are we ready to set sail fer Chicago, or what?”

            “Yes.” We all responded. I did not even care if I wound up in bloody Canada; I just wanted to be above ground and on land.

            One-Eyed Oliver whipped around to his crew and shouted at them, “Then lift anchor, maggots!”

            “Aye aye, captain!” They replied.

            However, everyone watched as the one in the back, with blond hair and an eye patch (considerably the smallest of them, even when compared to the female who wore fake cat ears), began to get dragged back. There was a vent in the space between the front of the ship and the middle, main level. Something was sucking him back toward it.

            “Huh?!” The pirate shouted. His crewmates, including One-Eyed Oliver, all gasped (though I genuinely believe that Oliver merely _said_ the word “gasp”). As he was pulled further backward, the pirate then started to panic, screaming “NO” over and over almost incoherently. When he was close enough to the vent, the suction of the air somehow knocked him over, and feet-first, he disappeared into the vent. It did not even seem like the vent was large enough, so I did not even _try_ to comprehend how he had managed to fit well enough to slide in without any friction—had it been _greased?!_

            “Bob!” The remaining three pirates exclaimed. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any goddamned stranger, a loud burp was emit from within the vent.

            _That pirate had just been eaten alive._

For a beat, everyone was quiet. Aten was the first to start chuckling, though he was clearly trying not to, and the sound of someone else failing to conceal their laughter made Andrew start cracking up as well.

            “What are ye laughin’ at?” One-Eyed Oliver protested. “That was one of me crew that just got eaten!”

            In a burst of hysterical laughter, Andy screeched, “ _By another one of your crew!!_ ”

            Those words prompted everyone, including myself, to completely lose their minds in laughter. I had never laughed harder than I did then in my _entire two-hundred twenty years of being alive._ I cannot even explain _why_ I was laughing; everything had just bottled up, and with everyone else laughing, laughter seemed to be the right way to expel my built-up stress. I kept laughing along with everyone else until I noticed that there was only one person who was dead silent: Cochryn. He had his head down, and he looked so… distraught. Seeing his misery made me stop laughing.

            We had survived, but had I done what I had come along to do? The answer was undoubtedly no.


End file.
